Shrapnel
by Lookinglass
Summary: World War II: Grimmjaw is an exhausted U.S. soldier, dragging his platoon through dirt, dead bodies, and despair. Ulquiorra is a detached German officer, efficient, obedient, and ready to serve his country. A piece of shrapnel brings the two together.
1. Grimmjaw

_Reflections_

One day, a crazy friend of mine (die-hard Ulquiorra fan) asked me to write a fanfic based on this great idea she read in another fan fiction.

Half a year later, I listened to her request.

So enjoy.

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* * *

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**shrap·nel **_n. _metal fragments and debris from an exploding object

**Chapter One**

**Grimmjaw**

The battlefield is a shithole. It's filled with mud (which is shit), it's filled with scraps (which is shit), it's filled with blown off limbs (shit), and it's filled with dead people (which is even more like shit). And Grimmjaw was stuck in this shithole.

Shit.

He crawled through the mud. Wiped the grime off his face as he clutched his gun closer to his chest. Aircraft flew overhead, making a dreadful noise as they soared across the gray sky. Grimmjaw flattened his body, burying himself to the ground as he crawled.

Behind him was the rest of his platoon. Codename 'Panther.' Stupid name. They followed him earnestly, hoping the trench walls would shelter them. There wasn't many left. Most had been killed by mines or gunfire. A few had been plucked off one-by-one by snipers. Sticking close to Grimmjaw was Reynolds, a physics graduate who didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing here. He was a skinny one, and he used a pale hand to clean his thick glasses. The first time they met, he had held out the same white hand for a handshake with a toothy grin. The grin faltered when he was met with Grimmjaw's withering look. Grimmjaw spat on the ground and conceded one nod before he turned his heels to walk away.

Unfortunately, that kind gesture led Reynolds into thinking they were now friends. So the nerd stuck to him like a leech.

"Grimmjaw!" Reynolds choked. "Are we there yet?"

Grimmjaw ignored him and continued to move forward. He just hoped the others weren't straying away. It was always a pain to go gather them later. Annoyed, he yanked open his shirt. His soiled uniform was stifling. His shoulders were too broad for the jacket and his pants too short. At the same time he got his uniform he had gotten in an argument with his superior over his blue hair. The captain ordered him to either dye it or shave it off. Grimmjaw gave him the finger. They got into a fistfight, which he had never lost before. So Grimmjaw came out victorious with his blue hair untouched.

"Grimmjaw!"

"Shut the hell up!"

Dirt flew in the air as bullets peppered along the trench's edge. Everyone ducked, digging their heads into the dirt, arms wrapped over their heads. Grimmjaw hid behind a burnt piece of torso, face twisting at the smell. Unable to stand the acrid stench, he shoved away the corpse, raised himself, and positioned his gun. He let loose.

Three things about Grimmjaw: 1. he was deprived. 2. he was pissed. 3. his aim wasn't bad.

"You like it?" he yelled, laughing loudly. "I asked if you like it! FUCKERS!" By the time his bullets had ran out (though he continued to shoot), there was silence on the other end. Silence except for his mad laughter that echoed throughout the battlefield.

"Crazy bastard," a soldier from his platoon muttered.

* * *

Still, their asses had been saved multiple times by him. Grimmjaw had his berserker moments when he'd release his rage with an insane grin splashed across his face. In the middle of gunfire, he'd shoot back and somehow, somehow manage to defeat the enemy. How they didn't have a clue. 

The others were scared silly during those times, but Reynolds at least appreciated it. While he would never have approached Grimmjaw if they had met before the war, he couldn't help following him. As hostile as he was, there was something about Grimmjaw that drew people to him like flies.

The first thing Grimmjaw had said to Reynolds was: "You a number freak?"

"Excuse me?" Reynolds said.

"I said are you into numbers, you freak."

"Er..." Reynolds didn't want to lie (and was scared of lying to that scowling face). "Yes, I'm a physics major. I work mostly with quantum mechanics and applied—"

"Shut up," Grimmjaw interrupted. "You're making my head hurt."

Reynolds apologized.

After a while, Grimmjaw spoke up again, "I was never into numbers. Dropped out of school to work off my fucking old man's debt. The only math I know is 1 plus 1 equals 1."

"But 1 plus 1 is 2," Reynolds protested.

Grimmjaw turned his glass-blue eyes onto Reynolds, who flinched. He punched him in the head. "Dipshit. 1 plus 1 equals 1."

Reynolds rubbed the bump on his head, grateful that Grimmjaw had spared him. On his second day, he saw Grimmjaw pummeling the shit out of some poor guy who had spilled his lunch on Grimmjaw's front. "Yes, you're right. 1 plus 1 is 1."

Grimmjaw grinned. "You're not such a freak," he said.

* * *

They somehow came out alive from the trench war. 

Darkness had fallen. The platoon sat around a makeshift fire, warming themselves in the berating cold. The wind howled, piercing through their bones, taunting them as it whispered threats into their ears. There were only four soldiers left, three of them huddling closer to trap the warmth. Why no one had sent for them or rescued them out of this shithole wasn't such a mystery. The other Allied forces had a handful with the Japs and Nazis. And good ol' America was too busy sending death notification letters to notice they were still alive.

"Hey Reynolds," said one soldier, scratching his hooked nose. His name was something like Jackman. "Where's Grimmjaw. The asshole said I'd be dead by today but I win the bet. Five limbs all here."

"He's fixing his gun," another soldier, Hershey, replied. Hershey was a 20-year-old with a mournful expression as if he had already lived past fifty. "Said it got jammed halfway."

"So where is he?"

"I wouldn't bother him," Reynolds muttered. "Don't touch him when he's with a gun."

"I don't care for the sick things he does with that gun," Jackman laughed. "But I want my ten bucks."

Something cold pressed up against his head. Jackman turned around slowly to see Grimmjaw standing over him, blue eyes staring down, gun pointed at Jackman's head. "I could still win this bet," he said.

Jackman yelped and fell backwards, scrambling out of the way.

Grimmjaw lowered his gun and took Jackman's seat. "Jackass."

"In a bad mood?" Hershey asked. "You always sulk after a killing spree."

"Shut it, Chocolate," Grimmjaw spat. "You want me to snap you in half?"

"Guys, stop it," Reynolds intervened. "Wait till we find an American camp. You can chew each other out then."

Grimmjaw laughed, bitterly. "American camp, my ass. This is Nazi land. Nobody knows we're alive and nobody cares we're alive."

"Speak for yourself," Jackman said. "I've got a wife and kid back at home." He drew a picture out of his pocket. "Ellen and my little Tessa." He kissed the photo.

There was a thoroughly disgusted look on Grimmjaw's face. He turned to Reynolds, "What about you? Do you have family waiting for you like this jackass here?"

Reynolds fidgeted. "I think I got dumped by my girlfriend. Not too sure because the letter got blown up when our camp was ambushed."

They laughed at Reynolds' misfortune. Next was Hershey. "My dad kicked me out of the house a few years ago. Nothing to really go back to."

"Why'd your dad kick you out?" Jackman asked.

"I came out of the closet," Hershey said.

The three stared at Hershey. "Shit. You a chocolate fruitcake?" Grimmjaw said.

"Man, you didn't have to tell us," Jackman said. He raised his hands. "Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against gays."

Hershey shrugged. "Don't have anything to lose. We all might die tomorrow."

_Optimistic of him,_ Grimmjaw thought. He had thought there was something queer about the guy in the first place. Not that he cared.

"Well, thanks for telling us," Reynolds said, accommodating as always. "You were hella brave to—"

"Are you the fucker or the fucked?" Grimmjaw asked, quite bluntly.

Reynolds turned red and rounded on Grimmjaw. "Sit your ass down," Grimmjaw said. "I was curious."

Jackman slapped Hershey on the back. "You just haven't tasted a woman yet. Ellen is my angel and Tessa my baby angel." He raised his photo again and gazed dreamily at it.

Then there was an ambush. They should have expected it; after all, they were deep in Nazi territory. A _rat-tat-tatting _sliced through the air. "GET DOWN!" Grimmjaw bellowed. He shot out his arm and grabbing the back of Reynolds' head, who was sitting closest to him, shoved him to the ground. These jerks didn't even give them a single minute to rest. He couldn't pinpoint were the bullets were coming from. Snipers probably.

By the time the dust had cleared, the fire had been put out. Everyone was kneeling on the ground, waiting for the worst to pass. Grimmjaw sat up first and his eyes flicked around, checking for the enemy, confirming the state of the other soldiers.

Reynolds was shaking like a cornered rat while Hershey's mournful expression went down another notch. Jackman was trying to stand up, still holding onto his precious photograph. Through the picture was a large hole. A matching hole was in Jackman's chest.

Jackman sank to the ground, his chest heaving as blood pulsated from the wound.

"Holy shit, Jackman..." Reynolds murmured.

They all ran to him, except for Grimmjaw who stood motionless.

"Jackman! Fuck, Jackman!" Hershey said hoarsely. He griped hopelessly around the fallen soldier, unsure of how to move him.

Jackman stirred a little. He raised the hole-bitten photograph. "Shit," he whispered. "There's a hole through my Ellen."

Grimmjaw still didn't move; his eyes were glued to Jackman.

Jackman chuckled. "Looks like I lose the bet. The ten bucks are in my pants pocket."

Grimmjaw approached him slowly. He stared down at Jackman, who was sinking into a sleep. "Jackass," Grimmjaw said. "I'll see you in hell."


	2. Ulquiorra

_This chapter is dedicated to my crazy friend_

**Chapter Two**

**Ulquiorra**

"Oberst Schiffer."

_...Quiet._

"Oberst Schiffer."

_Quiet._

"Oberst Schiffer!"

Ulquiorra cracked open a green eye. He turned his head, his gaze settling on a nervous soldier.

"You were sleeping, sir." The soldier squirmed when Ulquiorra continued to stare.

"I don't sleep," Ulquiorra said.

He straightened himself up. For the past 12 minutes, he had been sitting against a gray wall of the hallway with his eyes shut. People can be foolish. They immediately assume others are sleeping just because they have their eyes closed.

"Who are you?" Ulquiorra asked.

The soldier was in the prime of his youth with typical Aryan features—blond curls and frank blue eyes. It made a striking contrast to Ulquiorra's own dark appearance. "Karl Ehrlichmann, sir," the soldier replied. "Oberstleutnant Fuchs sent me to retrieve you for the meeting and—sir!"

While the soldier babbled on, Ulquiorra had already begun walking down the hallway, towards the officer quarters. He disliked to waste time, so he usually avoided conversation unless necessary. This was an example of unnecessary conversation.

Though he wasn't particularly tall and soldiers sometimes poked fun at his height (to their own demise), Ulquiorra covered the 10-mintute-distance to the officer quarters in three minutes. By the time Ehrlichmann had caught up with him, panting from his run, Ulquiorra had reached the conference room and was already closing the door behind him.

"You found him." It was Oberstleutnant Fuchs, a laidback, lazy officer who was known for getting by with his slick charm. "I thought it would take you at least a half-hour to find him."

"Someone spotted him sleeping in the hallway of the left wing, sir," Ehrlichmann replied.

The Oberstleutnant shook his head. "He doesn't sleep. Considers it a waste of time."

There was a pause between the two men. "Oberst Schiffer is very practical, isn't he, sir?" Ehrlichmann said carefully.

'Practical' hardly covered the picture.

Oberstleutnant Fuchs laughed. "The guy's a monster," he said. "Look how fast he climbed the ladder. Rumor says he's got another promotion waiting for him."

"Is he that good?" Ehrlichmann wondered. "Sir," he added.

Oberstleutnant Fuchs shrugged. "He used to be a sniper before he was promoted. They say he never missed a shot. And he has this air about him that unsettles people."

The Oberstleutnant opened the door. "Run along now. This meeting's going to be a sticky one. Reports came in about a surviving American platoon being spotted along the trenches. We dispatched a couple of snipers but the general wants one soldier brought back alive."

"What for?"

Oberstleutnant Fuchs had a wry smile. "Interrogation, of course."

* * *

As soon as Ulquiorra stepped into the darkened room, he raised his right arm, bent at a perfect forty-five degree angle, and said in his soft voice, "Heil Hitler." 

The presiding general nodded. Ulquiorra lowered his hand and took his seat at the table. He was tired of doing the mindless salute but as the fourth-ranked officer here, he had to maintain his respect.

The conference room was a standard rectangular room that was dimly lit and musty. The black uniforms of the officers blended into the darkness, except for the red swastika armbands, which burned with a ferocity. Most of the officers had removed their peaked caps, though Ulquiorra left his on.

While the others prattled about things not worth hearing, Oberstleutnant Fuchs snuck into the room with a sheepish grin. Ulquiorra was the only one to notice him. Fuchs spotted Ulquiorra with a bright look on his face and sauntered over to sit next to him. Ulquiorra disregarded the cockroach's existence.

The first time the two met, it was the other way around. It was a meeting between a superior (Fuchs) and a soldier (Ulquiorra). Ulquiorra was reporting to his hauptmann of his sniper kills when Fuchs had first spotted him.

"Number of kills?" the hauptmann asked.

"06 hours and 23 minutes: 25 kills. 06 hours and 31 minutes: 20 kills. 06 hours and 37 minutes: 33 kills. Sir."

"So in total that is..."

"78 kills in 15 minutes, sir," Ulquiorra replied instantly.

"With your past record of 394 kills that brings it up to 46—no wait, was it around 470...?"

"472." _Imbecile._

"And 5,678 multiplied by 3,193 is?" Fuchs chimed in.

"18,129,854," Ulquiorra answered before he could stop himself. Annoyed by the pointless processing his brain had to undergo, he was about to turn around and see who it was when a heavy arm swung over his shoulder.

Feldwebel Fuchs was a ladiesman who flirted with anything in a skirt. Seeing Ulquiorra's slender figure from behind, he flocked over and flung an arm over Ulquiorra's shoulder, saying, "Hey, little lady, what are you doing here, cracking numbers?"

Ulquiorra looked up. "What," he said, "are you doing?"

Fuchs froze.

The hauptmann gaped at Fuchs in aghast horror. Then shook his head sympathetically.

The arm that was slung over Ulquiorra's shoulder began to tremble. And shake. And sweat (a lot). But though he tried as hard as he could, for the love of God, he couldn't lift his arm off that shoulder. Meanwhile, Ulquiorra stared at him with green eyes that could have turned anyone to stone (á la Medusa).

It was the most frightening moment of Fuchs' life.

They made up (at least, that was what Fuchs liked to think, as he waved at Ulquiorra). Ulquiorra wasn't paying attention, for he was observing the movements of another officer.

The man was smiling as usual. His name was Dietrich. As Sturmbannfuhrer, he was ranked below Fuchs, and most definitely below Ulquiorra. However, the lofty smile and slyly narrow eyes lent Ulquiorra an excuse to be cautious towards him. Dietrich didn't turn to face Ulquiorra, though he knew he was being watched. Instead, he continued to smile that half-smile, his eyes solely on the general.

"As you've all heard," the general started, clearing his throat importantly, "several American soldiers have been seen near the base. This is the first time the enemy has been so close to our quarters. I believe we should take any measures to have this platoon eliminated."

Everyone nodded, murmuring with accord.

"A squad will be sent out today," the general continued, "this time led by Oberst Schiffer. We will add more snipers under his wing. Are there any questions?"

Ulquiorra read the report. There was no change in his expression but there was a sense of distaste underneath the calm exterior. _They're nothing but lost soldiers who survived by chance,_ he thought. _It will be a waste of energy and resources if we target them._

He raised his eyes at the general.

The general twitched, as usual a little afraid of those green eyes. "What, Schiffer?" he said gruffly. "Do you have any objections?"

Ulquiorra lowered the report. "None, sir."

"All right, then," said the general. "Officers, return to your positions."

Chairs were pushed back and everyone stood up to leave the room. They left with their heads raised high, maintaining a ridiculously blatant aloofness as they passed by the soldier waiting outside.

Obersleutnant Fuchs stepped out with Ulquiorra, who was the last one to leave the room. The soldier Ehrlichmann approached them. "Sir," he said. "I wanted to ask you about—"

His voice faltered when he heard the cocking of a pistol. Ulquiorra had a gun at the base of the man's throat, face expressionless as usual. "O-oberst," the man stammered. "What are you doing, sir?"

Obersleutnant Fuchs silently watched.

Ulquiorra parted his lips. "American," he spoke in English. "Who sent you here?"

Ehrlichmann swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing up and down, above the barrel of the gun. Dry sweat appeared at his temple as his eyes darted back and forth frantically. "I-I—" He gulped. "How did you know?"

_Idiot,_ Ulquiorra thought. He could easily spot American spies. They made the most trivial mistakes. "Three reasons," he said. "One, you walk like an American. Two, you talk like an American." The green eyes darkened. "Three, you gave the wrong answer. Like an American."

_Bang! _Blood sprayed over Ulquiorra as the body fell to the ground in a heap. Ulquiorra replaced his gun, barely glancing at the dead spy.

"Hey, you just killed him?" said Obersleutnant Fuchs. "I was hoping you'd at least get something out of him before that."

"I dislike unnecessary bloodshed," Ulquiorra said, wiping the blood off his face with his fingers.

Instead of rubbing it off, he smudged the clinging liquid across his face. The way the blood was smeared across his lips, strikingly crimson against the pale skin, gave him the appearance of a vampire that had just ravaged its meal.

"A pity," said a voice softly.

Fuchs jumped in surprise. Ulquiorra's eyes swiveled as they latched onto the figure standing behind the two.

It was Sturmbannfuhrer Dietrich. He was smiling (of course), the grin spreading from ear to ear and dripping with artificiality. "I was hoping to plug the leak before you, Oberst," he said in that light but appropriately respectful tone. "It's a real pity."

Before anyone could respond, Dietrich bowed his head and slithered away. Fuchs whistled. "Creepy, isn't he?" he said dryly.

Ulquiorra turned to walk away. "Have someone clean up the body."

Fuchs snickered. "Looks like everyone except the general knew about the presence of a spy."

Ulquiorra didn't reply. _The general is pathetic,_ he thought. _He is unworthy. Perhaps, someday...I will find a worthy one to lead us._

_Someday_.

* * *

They were on foot. 

The general had ordered that they move on foot to "avoid complications and increase stealth."

Translation: Go bleed your feet for all I care, as long as you exterminate the Americans.

Before leaving, Ulquiorra gathered all the snipers and had a little talk with them, which was unusual of him.

"A good sniper," he said, "is more than just a crude shooter. He is a shadow. Elusive and exact, he knows the earth, the sky, the surroundings. A sniper sees without being seen."

He fingered the Mauser Kar 98k, rather missing the gun's smooth touch.

"Don't miss a single target," he said.

"But Oberst," a sniper spoke up. "The general ordered for us to bring one back alive."

Ulquiorra paused. He raised his acid-green eyes, boring into the resolute eyes of the snipers. For the first time, he went against an order. "Leave no survivors."

How strange. He was being merciful.

It must be the nostalgia.

* * *

_Notes_

Oberst – equivalent German military rank to Colonel

Oberstleutnant – equivalent German military rank to Lieutenant-Colonel

Sturmbannfuhrer - equivalent German military rank to Major

Hauptmann – equivalent German military rank to Captain

Feldwebel – equivalent German military rank to Sergeant

...confusing, isn't it?

(kudos to wikipedia)

_

* * *

_

_Reflections_

_Shrapnel_ turned out to be much gloomier than I expected.

Still.

I pat myself on the back for getting this far (pat-pat).

Oh, and a big thank you to all the reviewers (including the one that somehow appeared under my id--hopefully that was just a system error and not some scary tech-genius hacking).

Reviews make quite a difference. They're a great motivation to aspiring authors like moi. So thanks again :).

I'll try to update the next chapter soon (when I get emo again).


	3. Shithole

**Chapter Three**

**Shithole**

Synonyms of red.

Crimson.

Cherry.

Scarlet.

Ruby.

Red (shit, I already used that one).

And blood.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Grimmjaw staggered, a jarring ache pulsing through his head. "Shit," he said. "Shit! _Shit!_"

The other soldiers stirred from their daze. "Jackman is dead," Reynolds said in a hollowed voice. "There's only three of us left."

"What are we supposed to do? What are we going to do now?" Hershey said.

Grimmjaw shoved Hershey aside. On Jackman's pallid face was a calm look with an almost small, sad smile adorning the lips.

_What the fuck you smiling at? _Grimmjaw thought. _You're dead._

He bent over Jackman's corpse and dug through the pants pockets. When his fingers clasped over the ten-dollar bill, he straightened himself up. "Let's go," he said tersely.

Hershey stared at Grimmjaw, mouth parted in disbelief. Even Reynolds was shaking his head. "What are you doing?" Hershey said. "You—are you robbing from a dead man?"

Grimmjaw snorted. "Clean out your ears, fucker. Jackman lost a bet so I'm taking the money. What's the use of ten dollars on a piece of meat?"

"Piece of meat?" Hershey repeated, face turning purple. "How—JACKMAN ISN'T EVEN COLD YET AND YOU—! YOU BAST—" Hershey lunged out at Grimmjaw, clearly having lost his mind.

Grimmjaw easily swatted away the punch that was thrown at him. He crouched, raised both arms, and punched Hershey in the face. Hershey reeled, swinging his arms like a windmill. One of his wild punches connected with the right side of Grimmjaw's jaw.

A mad glint sparking in his electric-blue eyes, Grimmjaw lunged forward and slammed Hershey to the ground. Hershey was half-unconscious, his face swelling up like a balloon. Grimmjaw got on top of Hershey and began hitting him over and over again.

"YOU TRYING TO HIT ME, HUH?" Grimmjaw yelled, insane grin dancing on his face. "FUCKTARD, THEN YOU GOTTA STOP HITTING LIKE A GIRL! YOU MOTHERF—"

"GRIMMJAW, STOP!" Reynolds shouted. He rushed over to grab the flailing arms from behind.

Grimmjaw pulled his arm back and elbowed Reynolds in the face.

Reynolds staggered backwards with a cry, nose bursting. "WAIT, GRIMMJAW!" he yelled, blood flowing down his chin. "STOP! STOP!! HERSHEY'S GONNA DIE!"

After six more punches, Grimmjaw finally stopped. He sat there, shoulders heaving.

He stared at his fists and bruised knuckles. They were covered in blood. The same blood that spilled out of Jackman's chest when he was shot. What had Grimmjaw done when the bullets started flying? Pushed Reynolds to the ground. Had Jackman been sitting at Grimmjaw's left? Or was he already down by the first bullet?

"Fuck it." Grimmjaw stood up.

Grimmjaw left the blood to dry on his fists. _Hands stained by blood, _he thought. _Poetic bullshit._

Reynolds was eyeing him warily, cupping his bloody nose.

Grimmjaw reached over to slap Hershey's face. "Wake up, Choco Fruitcake. Let's get moving."

Hershey stirred with a groan. Grimmjaw spat on the ground. He dug in his pockets and threw a dirty towel on Hershey's face. The towel immediately soaked in the blood, turning into a crimson sponge.

"Wipe your face."

Reynolds helped Hershey get to his feet. He held onto Hershey's arms while Hershey regained his balance. Reynolds flicked his eyes at Grimmjaw.

"What are you looking at?" Grimmjaw said. "Scared I might hit you? Pain's good for you. Reminds you that you're alive. Though we're all gonna die soon anyway."

"Then why'd you stea—take—the ten dollars?" Reynolds blurted out.

Grimmjaw stared at Reynolds in silence, his expression the most serious Reynolds had seen until now.

Grimmjaw held up the ten bucks in his hand, where it had been all along, now crumpled and bloody.

"So I can give it back to Jackman later," he said.

* * *

Back when he said they had no chance of surviving, Grimmjaw wasn't lying. They were nearly out of ammunition. His M1 Carbine was half-empty. He had three grenades, but that was it. Besides, they were out of food and water. His fight with Hershey had eaten up some of his energy (and given him a sore jaw). Not that Hershey wasn't any better off. 

There was another moan from Hershey as he staggered across the ground. The blood had clotted but his face was so swollen he could have hardly recognized himself.

"Grimmjaw," Reynolds said. "We need to stop. Hershey's not gonna make it."

Grimmjaw grinded his teeth. He hated dead weight, especially when he couldn't kill it off. "There's a town nearby," he said. "We're not stopping until we reach it."

"A town?" Reynold said. "What? Are we just going to waltz into some town and check into an inn? You want us to get killed?"

Grimmjaw laughed. "Are your glasses fucked up, nerd? Look what we're surrounded by."

They'd been trudging through the dust for hours, seeing no end to this hell. A chill rippled through Reynolds when he looked around. Through his grimy glasses, he saw the battlefield.

Corpses surrounded them, stacks piled up in the half-built trenches, some buried in residue, others burnt coal-black from the air raids. The torso of one soldier had been cooked medium-well with his arm propped up at a crooked angle, fingers curled and stiff.

Grimmjaw hit him in the head, knocking his glasses off. "Don't just gape at the dead bodies," he said. "Look at what they're wearing."

Everything became blurry without his glasses. Reynolds got on his knees to feel for them. When he found them, he squinted at the uniform on the nearest body. Seeing the washed-out green-gray and the swastika symbol, he jerked back. "German uniform... What—you want us to _wear_ this?"

"Why not?" Grimmjaw was already nonchalantly stripping a dead soldier of his uniform. He threw a detached arm over his shoulder. "We won't get shot on sight in these."

"This is a Nazi uniform," Reynolds said, disgust on his face. "And it belonged to a corpse!"

Grimmjaw yanked the pants off a dead soldier. "Shut your whining and wear it if you want to live for a few more days. Put this on the Choco Fruitcake."

He handed over a cleaner uniform.

After stripping a few more corpses (Reynolds looked like he wanted to cry), they climbed down a ladder into a trench. Inside the trench, a rotting odor wafted in the air and dead rats dotted the ground, bloated with blood and pus. Not exactly a suite.

Grimmjaw yanked off his torn shirt and donned the Nazi uniform jacket over his bare chest. While Grimmjaw complained about how the jacket was too stuffy (so he left it open), Reynolds knelt down next to Hershey.

Hershey was on the edge of consciousness. He was slumped against the sandbags of the trench wall, eyes flickering.

Seeing the swollen face, Reynolds shook his head. "Why'd you go against him?" he whispered. He helped Hershey change into the Nazi uniform.

Hershey didn't reply. Instead, he reached for his old jacket. He pulled out a torn photo. Jackman's photo.

Hershey stared into the hole of the photograph.

"...Jackman was a good guy," he said in a hoarse mumble. "He's the one who should've lived. That bastard was different. He had someone waiting for him, for God's sake!"

The photograph slipped out of his hand. It was swept away by the mournful wind.

Reynolds bowed his head. His fingers circled a wooden cross that hung next to his dog tags. He held the cross in both hands and began to pray. He prayed for Jackman, prayed for his family. And he prayed that they die a painless death.

Hershey lifted his face. To Reynolds' surprise, the swelling had lessened, except for the eyes, which were red and puffed up. Hershey sniffed and wiped his nose. "You Christian?" he said, shakily.

"Catholic," Reynolds nodded. "You?"

"Methodist. Even though I'm..."

Reynolds chuckled. He slipped the cross back under his jacket. "What about you, Grimmjaw?" he asked.

Grimmjaw leaned against the trench wall with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face. He watched the two idiots get overemotional and teary. But he was polite for once, leaving them alone to their sentimental wailing.

"Atheist," he retorted.

They both laughed. "Of course," said Hershey.

"Religion's for cowards who want something to hang on," Grimmjaw continued viciously. "They can't fucking accept that when they die, they'll be returning to the dirt as worm food. There's nothing more, nothing less."

"Who knows?" Reynolds said thoughtfully. "You might be in for a surprise."

"Right," Grimmjaw sneered. "Why the hell would I linger in this shithole after I'm dead? Maybe to have revenge against those fuckers who killed me."

Reynolds had a solemn look. _It's possible, _he thought. _For Grimmjaw, it's probable. The chances of him finding peace after death are... _"Grimmjaw," Reynolds started, hesitantly. "When that time comes...when you..." He breathed out. "Don't get eaten."

_Eaten by the darkness, eaten by despair..._

"You're too early to worry about me, nerd," Grimmjaw said. "Just don't go crack and shoot yourself in the head."

Grimmjaw stopped when he saw Reynolds' face, which had turned white with fury.

Reynolds' fists shook, balled tight enough to prevent the blood flow, truly angry for the first time. "_Never say that again_," he snarled. "I'll _never _commit suicide. Don't you ever—!" Rage choked his words. Reynolds whirled around and stomped to the other end of the trench.

"What's up his ass?" Grimmjaw said to Hershey.

Hershey sighed. "You really are as insensitive as a rock. He just said he was Catholic, remember? Seems pretty serious about it too..."

Grimmjaw laughed, his laughter laced with derision. "Worrying about going to hell?" he yelled for Reynolds to hear. "Well, wake up. _We're already in one._"

* * *

Reynolds later regretted his anger. It was useless being angry at Grimmjaw when the guy was a jerk to the core. 

He looked around nervously. He was alone in the trench, having stomped a long way from where Hershey and Grimmjaw were. He turned, ready to return to the others, when he heard a strange click.

A bullet shot past him, nicking him in the arm. Reynolds froze for a split-second before he threw himself down as more bullets followed.

_A sniper? _he deduced from the force of the bullet. Of course, how could he have forgotten? There must be others too, other snipers who had followed their tracks.

_Move! If I just lie here like this, it's easier for them to aim at me. Move, dammit! _

There was a laugh.

It was Grimmjaw.

He was squatted behind the German sniper, who was camouflaged behind some rubble about 40 degrees northwest of the trench lines, not too far away. The sniper whipped around, terror in his eyes. Too late.

Grimmjaw seized the sniper's head, one hand grabbing the jaw, the other pressing against the top of the head. He grinned. "Found you."

He yanked his arms apart, snapping the man's neck.

Grimmjaw pushed away the dead body. He leaned and stretched out his hand to help Reynolds out of the trench. Reynolds clambered out, hauling himself to his feet. "You killed him with your bare hands," Reynolds wheezed. _Monster. _

Grimmjaw shrugged. "We're out of bullets," he said. "Though I needed to get close to him."

It took Reynolds a minute to realize that he had been the bait. _Cold-blooded bastard, _he thought sourly.

"Hey, at least I killed him," Grimmjaw said, as if that solved everything."Anyway, it's time to go, nerd. There's two more hiding nearby."

Dirt exploded in the air as bullets peppered the ground at their feet. A smirk played on Grimmjaw's lips. "Look who wants to play."

He shoved Reynolds out of the way and ran, evading the bullets and carefully pinpointing from what direction they were coming from. It didn't take long for him to find the location. The sniper was hiding near the tires of a collapsed tank.

There was a strangled yell from the sniper as Grimmjaw pounced on him. "You're FUCKED, loser!" Grimmjaw shouted, laughing like a maniac. "A sniper's FUCKED when he's found!" He grabbed the sniper by the collar and began pounding him to the ground.

The sniper kneed Grimmjaw in the stomach. Grimmjaw released the sniper with a grunt but immediately lunged for another punch. The two men rolled on the ground, scuffling furiously for survival. The sniper reached for a spare pistol under his belt but Grimmjaw took this chance to kick the man in the groin.

When the sniper collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain, Grimmjaw kicked him again so that he tumbled into the trench. Inside the trench, the sniper, his face twisted with rage, triumphantly pulled out his pistol at Grimmjaw.

Grimmjaw tossed something into the trench. "Burn in hell," he said.

The grenade exploded.

* * *

Reynolds was still in a state of shock as he watched Grimmjaw rummaging through the dead sniper. He stared at the twisted neck, at the shrapnel-embedded corpse in the trench, then at Grimmjaw, who had done all of this matter-of-factly. 

"What are you doing?" Reynolds finally asked.

"Spoils of the fight," said Grimmjaw. "Dead men don't need guns."

_Practical at times like this, _Reynolds thought.

The two men looked up when they heard shuffling footsteps. It was Hershey, his face a deathly white behind the bruises as he surveyed the damages. He stood in front of them, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"Hershey!" Reynolds said in surprise. "You sure you can move around like tha—" He cut himself off.

Grimmjaw stared at Hershey. "What are you doing, Choco Fruitcake?" he said slowly.

Hershey had a gun in his hand.

His arm trembled as he pointed it at Grimmjaw.

* * *

_Reflections_

Another chapter completed. Yay.

As usual, thanks for all the great reviews and critiques (loved the one with the dark chocolate XD).

_Shithole _was the longest chapter so far (tell me if it was too long), but I like the clashes that are starting to occur in our lovable platoon.

_

* * *

_

_...and Answers_

Thought I should answer some of the questions from the reviews

1. Ulquiorra's name

_A. _Schiffer is in fact a German name (means "boatman"), hence, the reason why I made him a Nazi. I made Grimmjaw an American because I didn't have a clue what country his surname's from (can't even spell it).

2. Bleach plot

_A. _Um... Not exactly sure what the reviewer meant by "Bleach plot" but I am thinking of adding more Bleach **characters** into this story. But they'll probably have names different from their original ones, so you'll have to go treasure-hunting for them :).

3. Love (aka. pairings)

_A._ Hm.

Personally, I have no fav pairings. But depending on where the story goes, I **may** add a few. It could also depend on what readers what, since I don't mind whatever pairing I write about.

Any other questions, just ask them in your reviews.

Bye.


	4. Oberst

**Chapter Four**

**Oberst**

Silence pervaded the desert.

Scratch that.

Silence pervaded the shithole. A breeze flurried by, echoing through the hollowed cavities of the dead. A worn photograph flitted across the battlefield. It was pinned to the ground by a shiny black boot.

Ulquiorra bent down to pick up the photograph. He examined it, his finger tracing the edge of the hole in the center.

"What you looking at?" Fuchs skipped over. He had the soldiers spread out and search for clues, survivors, and most importantly, the American soldiers.

Someone should have warned him that this leech would be tagging along. It was probably the general's way of punishing him for his defiance at the meeting.

"They were here," Ulquiorra said.

"How long ago?" Fuchs asked.

Ulquiorra flipped over the photo, where blood coated the back. He spread his index finger across the dried blood, feeling its bumpy texture. "Several days," he said. "See if more of them died here."

"More?"

Ulquiorra tapped the photo. "This one is dead," he said.

He folded the photograph and placed it in his pocket. "The report said it was a small platoon. Not many should be alive. At the most, three."

Dietrich approached them with a fox-smile on his face. "What did you find, Oberst?"

Ulquiorra stayed silent. _Three officers on the operation, _he thought._ What a waste._

"Well, I found something," Dietrich said cheerfully. He held a piece of shrapnel between his long fingers. "Interesting piece of rubble."

Ulquiorra stared at the piece of shrapnel. He immediately gathered the squad. "Search for snipers," he ordered.

"Why snipers?" Fuchs questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"Dead ones," said Ulquiorra. "The Americans moved into German territory. Find the corpses and confirm what direction they're heading at."

While the soldiers spread out in search of the dead snipers, Ulquiorra observed Dietrich, who had a complacent smile on his face. Dietrich had transferred to their headquarters a few weeks ago, unnerving everyone with that creepy smile and slitted eyes. But Ulquiorra suspected there was something else behind that smile.

"Oberst!" a sniper called out. "We found something!"

The soldiers huddled around a trench. Fuchs poked a corpse riddled with shrapnel with his foot. "This must have been one hell of a fight," Fuchs said.

Ulquiorra examined the dead snipers. _They were killed by one soldier, _he realized. _Who…?_

His green eyes scanned their surroundings. He spotted several dead bodies missing their uniforms. "How far away is the nearest town here?" he said to Fuchs.

Fuchs looked taken aback. "Er…About a day's distance? Wh—" Comprehension dawned on his face. "But how?" he demanded.

Ulquiorra indicated at the stripped corpses. "Their uniforms were taken," he said. "The Americans are trying to enter a town disguised as German soldiers."

There was furious outcry from the soldiers, who fumed at the thought of Americans impersonating them. "They're hungry and tired, eh?" Dietrich said.

"How boring," a soldier said. He was a small one, with short black hair and a feminine face that was warped in a mocking expression. "Oberst Schiffer, we should just go and kill them."

Ulquiorra memorized the names of all the soldiers. This one was a noisy idiot named Krake. He often challenged authority.

"We'll camp out here tonight," said Ulquiorra.

Krake was about to protest when another soldier stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. Krake pushed the hand off. He rolled his eyes and turned to follow the other soldiers who settled in the trench.

While the soldiers made a fire, Ulquiorra looked through the trench. _The First Aid kits are all gone, _he thought. He climbed up the ladder and traced the steps of the dead sniper.

A few meters away from the trench, he found something new. It was a crimson puddle. The blood caked around the dirt, not completely dry. There were streaks of it nearby, as if the wounded had tried to drag himself, spilling blood.

"What is it?" Fuchs asked, peering over Ulquiorra's shoulder.

"A pool of blood," Ulquiorra said. "One of them is severely injured."

"How do you know it's American?"

"There are two dead bodies near the trench. One has a broken neck. The other was killed by a grenade. That," he pointed, "came from a bullet wound."

Fuchs stared at the blood.

"This one is dying," said Ulquiorra.

* * *

Meanwhile, the soldiers all sat around the fire in a circle, chatting and unloading their gear. Dietrich was talking with Krake. 

"So your first name is because of that hair?" Krake said. "Silber Dietrich."

Dietrich pulled at his silver bangs. "Maybe," he smiled.

He looked up when Ulquiorra and Fuchs returned. "What'd you find back there?" Dietrich said.

"A dying American," Fuchs replied.

Ulquiorra decided to reveal the photograph. "And this."

The photograph was passed around the soldiers, who glanced at it with superficial interest. Krake snatched it out of a sniper's hand. "My," he said. "She's a looker. I like the hole pricked in her."

A soldier angrily grabbed the photograph. "Take that back," he snapped.

Krake raised his eyebrows. "Take what back?" he said innocently.

_The soldier was called Sankt, _Ulquiorra recalled. He sat down on some sandbags, paying no further attention since he had little interest in such matters.

"You insulted a dead man's wife," Sankt said. "Take back what you just said."

"Why should I?" Krake demanded. "It was an American's woman. A _dead_ American's woman."

"Just because you look like one doesn't me you have to insult one," Sankt retorted.

The squad burst into laughter. Fury flashed in Krake's eyes.

"All right, break it up," Fuchs intervened. "The Oberst looks like he has something to say."

Ulquiorra stood up, hands in his pockets. "We will enter the town housing the Americans. Snipers will secure their positions inside. The squad will be split up. Several soldiers will accompany us, while the rest will remain outside until they receive orders."

"We're not attacking them directly?" Fuchs asked.

"No," Ulquiorra said. "We will execute them silently without involving civilians."

"You want us to wait for the entire time, Oberst?" Krake said loudly. "Why can't we just kill the Americans the moment we arrive?"

The other soldiers began to grumble as well, complaining about how slowly this operation was moving.

Ulquiorra's expression didn't change. But when he spoke, the temperature slipped down a notch, and everything was stilled as if time itself had frozen.

"This isn't a request," he said. "It's an order."

A shiver traveled through the soldiers. They all lowered their heads and stared at the ground.

"Follow me."

* * *

The next day, the squad got ready to leave. They packed in silence, maintaining their respect and keeping their distance. Some murmured in hushed tones about the terror the Oberst instilled in them. 

Before they left the camp, Ulquiorra gathered the snipers once again. He gave them specific instructions on how to shoot.

"Snipers aim at the chest," Ulquiorra said. "But I prefer here." He grazed a white finger down to the base of his throat. "When a bullet pierces this area, the target dies instantly. But in the occasion he doesn't, his vocal cords have been damaged. So he cannot cry out and warn the others."

Once the rest of the squad had started the march, Sankt approached him. "Oberst." He and Ulquiorra were the only two left in the camp.

"This should be with you, sir." Sankt handed over the photograph.

"Gather your belongings," Ulquiorra said, "or you'll be left behind."

Sankt ran to the trench, where he had left his gun. Ulquiorra was about to join the squad when he spotted someone slinking toward the trench.

Sankt arrived at an empty spot. "Hey," he said. "Where's my gun?"

He looked up as a shadow fell over him.

Standing at the edge of the trench was Krake. With a mocking smile, he lifted Sankt's gun and aimed it at the stunned soldier's head. "I thought a hole would look good on you," he said.

A shot rang through the air. Sankt slumped to the ground with a bullet through his forehead.

"Ah," Krake said in mock surprise. "Sorry!"

He tossed the gun at its dead owner. When he looked up, he caught Ulquiorra watching him.

Ulquiorra turned around. "How lame," he said.

* * *

_Reflections_

This chapter was short.

But I thought I'd just go with it, rather than drag it on and on.

On a positive note, did you guys catch the new Bleach character(s) I added?

If you can't figure out who's who, I'll reveal it in the next _Reflections_ ;).

Thank you again for the reviews and extra thanks to the people who answered my Q about Grimmjaw's name. You guys are awesome :D.

See you next time.


	5. Newcomers

Note

"normal" - English

_"italicized" _- German

_italicized _- Thought

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Newcomers**

"What are you doing, Choco Fruitcake?" said Grimmjaw.

Hershey had a look of horror on his face. He held the gun with two trembling hands.

"I said, what the hell are you doing?" Grimmjaw repeated.

"Grimmjaw!" Reynolds said sharply, but his voice slightly quivered. "Hershey, put down the gun. You know you don't want to do thi—"

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Grimmjaw exploded. "SHOOT, FUCKER!"

Hershey let out a cry and pulled the trigger.

The bullet soared over Grimmjaw as he ducked, hitting the remaining sniper who was hiding next to a pile of helmets. The bullet pierced the sniper through the hand, who dropped his rifle with a yell.

Grimmjaw leaped at the sniper, pinning the man to the ground. "Listen up, Choco Fruitcake," he said, knee pressed against the man's throat. "This is how you kill a man." He took the sniper's rifle and shot him in the chest.

"One bullet, cuz we're out of them," Grimmjaw said. "And only shoot the fucktard in the stomach if you really hate him. Shooting a man in the stomach gives him the most painful death possible. The intestines untangle, the stomach acid rises, the organs corrode. And he dies like that, slowly, painfully, begging for death."

He handed the rifle to Hershey, who jumped before he cautiously received it.

Grimmjaw grinned, cheerfully. "Good job," he said.

Hershey smiled weakly.

_Bang!_ Grimmjaw turned around, alarmed.

Behind them was the sniper. Panting, he had a bloody hand pressed against his chest. In his other hand was a pistol.

There was a groan. Hershey fell to the ground, a bullet buried at his side.

Grimmjaw grabbed the rifle that Hershey dropped. But the sniper had started running. By the time Grimmjaw had leveled the rifle to his face, the sniper was already sprinting out of the trench zone.

"Leave him, Grimmjaw!" Reynolds cried. "Hershey needs help!" Blood was pooling out of Hershey's hip.

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Grimmjaw bellowed. "GET THE FIRST AID! I'M GONNA KILL THAT BASTARD!"

He lifted the gun higher, focused the rifle's telescopic sight, then pulled the trigger. The bullet flew, singing through the air. It hit the sniper between the shoulder blades. He collapsed to the ground and didn't move.

Grimmjaw placed the gun down.

"Move it." He shoved Reynolds aside, as he grabbed the bandages. Using his teeth to tear off the bandages, he began wrapping them around Hershey's side.

"The blood's not clotting," Reynolds stammered. "What—"

Grimmjaw ignored the nerd's whining. "Don't die," he said. "Don't die on us yet, Choco Fruitcake."

Hershey was breathing heavily. "I won't."

Grimmjaw stared into the resolute brown eyes. He clenched his jaw. "Fuck." There was a pause before he murmured, "…Sorry."

Hershey smiled.

* * *

Hershey ended up surviving.

Barely.

As they prepared to leave, Reynolds gathered all the first aid kits and packaged food (mostly stale biscuits).

After Hershey tried to move without success, Grimmjaw, reluctantly, agreed to carry Hershey. "Don't poke any weird things into my back," he warned.

While they trudged through the dirt ("What the fuck do you eat, Choco Fruitcake?" Grimmjaw complained), Reynolds brought up a sticky issue. "When we get to the town," he said, "how are you going to communicate?"

Grimmjaw looked down at his Nazi uniform. "You speak German, nerd?"

"Well, a little—"

"What about Choco Fruitcake?"

"He once said he's fluent in German but his state is..."

"Then you'll be the only one speaking," Grimmjaw said shortly. "Tell them we can't speak because Choco Fruitcake's too beaten up and I have a sore jaw."

They trekked for a day and a half, stopping to rest occasionally. On the second day, their food supply had run out but their surroundings were gradually changing. By chance, they stumbled upon a path. The path led them to their destination.

For the first time in weeks, Reynolds spotted a civilian. A scrawny boy with straw-colored hair and buckteeth was crouched on a bridge. He sat on the edge, gaping stupidly at a butterfly flying over his head.

_"Excuse me,"_ Reynolds said in German. _"Could you lead us to the nearest town? Our friend is injured."_

The boy paid no attention to Reynolds. Instead, he raised his hand and reached for the butterfly, making incomprehensible noises. _"Uh, uh...uuh."_

"He's fucked in the head," Grimmjaw said.

Unsure of what to do, they stood there, watching the boy swipe at the butterfly. Then the boy lost balance and fell off the bridge.

Reynolds cried out. He was about to dive in when a voice stopped them.

A pudgy man ran toward them._ "Wonderweiss!" _he cried in exasperation. _"Did you fall into the river again?"_

He spotted them with surprise. _"Soldiers! You must be survivors from that dreadful battle."_

Reynolds nodded. _"Do you know a place where we could rest? Our friend was hit by a bullet."_

_"Of course!"_ the man boomed. _"Please follow me. Our town is located quite close to the bridge. We'll have someone look at your friend."_

_"Pay no attention to Wonderweiss,"_ he added. The skinny boy had already crawled out of the river and was now shaking the water off like a dog. _"Poor boy. Been like that since his parents were murdered in front of his eyes by American soldiers."_

Reynolds shifted nervously.

Following the man, they reached a small town.

The buildings inside the town were clustered together, as if they were lonely for each other's company. A cobblestone street led to a gilded church, which sat at the center of the town. Despite the gray sky and the gloom that swirled in the air, everyone had a look of pure optimism on their faces, while they went on with their business.

The man led them to an inn. There, they were given clean clothes and a bath. After washing off the layers of grime and blood, their host sent in a freckle-faced girl with curled hazel hair to take care of their wounds. Reynolds had his nose straightened (with a crack). Grimmjaw only had a few scratches to dab. Hershey, on the other hand, had more than a few scratches. Feverish, he tossed in his bed, moaning in pain.

_"Did a bear attack this man?"_ the girl cried. _"I've never seen such savage blows to the face!"_

Reynolds coughed.

Grimmjaw yawned.

While Hershey rested upstairs, Reynolds and Grimmjaw had their first proper meal. Grimmjaw wolfed down his food, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth. Using his fangs, he gnawed the chicken to the bone. Reynolds struck a conversation with the townspeople who crowded around their table to see the newcomers.

_"Your friend's jaw must not hurt so much if he can eat like that,"_ said the plump man who greeted them at the gates. He was the innkeeper, but also something of a leader in this town. _"My name is Wirtz. I welcome you to our humble home."_

_"My name is Reynolds,"_ said Reynolds. _"He is..."_ He pointed at Grimmjaw, who was stabbing the ham. _"Karl."  
_

Grimmjaw choked on his food. He glared at Reynolds.

"Chew before you swallow, Karl," Reynolds said quietly.

_"It's been a while since soldiers have entered our town,"_ Wirtz's wife, a thin, gray-haired lady said. _"How is the war faring? Are we going to win anytime soon?"_

_What?_ Reynolds stared at them. Were they out of their minds? Germany was getting squashed. It was just a matter of time before the Allies would launch a full-scale invasion against Germany.

_"Anina!"_ Mr. Wirtz chided. _"Why even ask? We wholeheartedly believe in the Fuhrer. He is a great man. He has a vision and he will lead our Fatherland to fulfill that vision."_

The other townspeople all nodded in unison, murmuring with approval and praise of Hitler.

Reynolds also nodded, but he felt sick inside. A vision that massacred an entire people. A vision that meant domination, discrimination, and death. Yet, this town placed so much faith in this twisted vision. _"I—"_ he started, hoarsely. _"I believe in the Fuhrer as well."_

Smiles lit up their faces.

While the servants cleaned up the table, Reynolds glanced sullenly at a satisfied Grimmjaw, who had finished nearly ten servings. _This place is dangerous, _he thought. _It's best we leave this town as soon as Hershey has recovered._

He stood up to go check on Hershey when the hazel-haired servant girl tapped on his arm.

_"Mister,"_ she said. _"How's your nose?"_

_"In perfect shape," _Reynolds replied.

The girl shot out a hand and tweaked his nose. He yelped, both hands flying to his face.

_"Not in such perfect shape, yeah?" _she grinned.

_"You've already done quite enough for us,"_ Reynolds said, gingerly touching his nose.

The girl nodded, her freckles bobbing. _"Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz are good people."_

_"I know,"_ Reynolds smiled.

_"They emptied their storehouse to feed you, mister,"_ the girl said. _"They've got no other food on the table."_

Reynolds opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn't know what to say.

* * *

Grimmjaw was bored.

He was bored out of his mind.

He didn't mind not speaking with the people of this La-la Land, but it got dead boring when he couldn't talk at all. Reynolds was rarely in the room; he was skipping about, bonding with the munchkins and "helping out whenever possible." So Grimmjaw was left alone with the Choco Fruitcake, who snored for most of the time.

"Fuck this shit," he said.

He stomped out of the room. Ignoring the interested looks shot in his direction, he left the inn.

Outside, there was nothing to see. Except maybe Wonderweiss, the town retard, who was trying to eat a dragonfly.

Someone pulled on his sleeve. Grimmjaw glanced down. It was a girl brat. She said something German (duh). Then she held up a puppy. Grimmjaw, not understanding a single word, glowered. Reynolds rushed over to translate for him.

"She asked if you want this orphan dog," Reynolds whispered into his ear. "Since you're a crude moron, you'll have a connection with this animal."

"WHAT!" Grimmjaw roared, grabbing Reynolds by the scruff of the neck.

"She said it! Not me!" Reynolds protested.

The girl scampered off, leaving the mutt at their feet.

"What am I supposed to do with this mutt?" Grimmjaw asked.

"I think you can have it," Reynolds said. "Keeps you company."

"Tch," Grimmjaw said. "I'm a cat person."

Grimmjaw poked the animal with his foot. The mutt whimpered, raising its big puppy eyes at Grimmjaw. It had a scruffy black face with twin brown spots over its bright eyes. Its fur was mostly black except for its light brown legs. Grimmjaw knelt down to gruffly pat the dog's head. It licked his hand. _German shepherd, _he thought. _Figures._

Grimmjaw stood up. "Starting today, your name will be Dog," he said, pointing at the dog.

Dog panted happily. Then it raised its leg and peed on Grimmjaw's foot.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Grimmjaw yelled. He was about to kick the shit out of the mutt when it sat down and barked once, wagging its tail. It cocked its head in that adorable way dogs do and perked its ear.

Grimmjaw stopped his foot in midair. He placed it down, scowling. "You're the only one who'd ever get away with that," he muttered. He rubbed the pup's head once more.

Dog barked.

Reynolds chuckled as he watched Grimmjaw. The guy had an almost childish side to him. _You would never believe this is the same person, _he thought. _The same person who used his bare hands to kill those soldiers..._

_Staying here may do us some good. Staying here just a little bit longer._

Then Reynolds had to intervene when Grimmjaw tried to feed Dog a dead dragonfly.

* * *

They stayed too long.

Reynolds made a great mistake. He got attached to the town. Attached to the peace and stability, to the friendly people, to Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz, and even to Greta, the hazel-haired servant girl.

On the other hand, Grimmjaw had Dog following him everywhere. In a day or so, the beast had tamed the dog completely. The pup listened to his every command, from "roll over" to "go pee on the nerd." Reynolds suspected Grimmjaw let the dog sleep on his bed at night, though he was never brave enough to confirm it.

But Grimmjaw was still bored.

Hershey had regained consciousness. Despite his impatience, Hershey remained confined to the bed until he fully recovered so Reynolds brought him his meal everyday.

One day, this blissful existence came to an abrupt end.

_"Mister!"_ It was Greta, who came running to him with an excited look on her face.

_"What is it?"_ he asked.

_"Newcomers!" _she said. _"They say it's a squad from the army."_

A lump of terror formed in his throat. Reynolds had a hard time swallowing. _"Ar...my?"_ he croaked.

_"Yes,"_ said Greta. _"With three officers. They were ordered to check on all the towns. Mr. Wirtz is already escorting them to the inn."_

Without another word to spare, Reynolds ran. _She could have seen wrong. She must have seen wrong. But I have to see for myself, _he thought, _before it is too late—_

He screeched to a halt. Reynolds' face paled when he spotted a large unit waiting outside the inn. The soldiers slung their guns over their shoulders, slouching as they waited. They waited for three men to enter the inn first.

The first man was a tall sandy-haired man with an easygoing manner. A friendly smile on his face, he strutted with relaxed shoulders and a thrown-back chest. The second one brought shivers to Reynolds' skin. Under his black cap was silver hair that tauntingly winked in the sunlight. His eyes were in slits and a wide grin was stretched across his face.

The third one was different.

Small and slim, he walked carefully, quietly. But with each step he took, the heavier the air became. His appearance was subdued, attractive even. He had delicately shaped features. A small mouth, pointed nose, and large eyes. The way his pitch-black hair contrasted starkly against his porcelain-white skin reminded Reynolds of a precious China doll. But there was nothing fragile about this man. What frightened Reynolds the most were his eyes.

His eyes were also like a doll's. Glassy eyes. Green orbs of calm, collected indifference. They were ruthless eyes, eyes without an ounce of humanity or emotion.

The third man paused before the entrance of the inn.

Blocking the doorway was Grimmjaw.

* * *

_Reflections_

I always imagined they'd first meet on the battlefield.

Somehow it came to this.

Ah well.

_...And Answers_

Kudos to those who figured out who's who. Here are the identities (drumroll)...

Silber Dietrich **(Ichimaru Gin)**: the name Silber is a dead giveaway. Plus, he has that annoyingly creepy smile.

Krake **(Luppi)**: feminine look and bitchy attitude. Who else? Krake is also German for 'octopus.'

Thank you for all your patience so far (don't forget to review :D).

The real action is about to begin.


	6. Parody

A little treat from me and Marchare. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5.5**

**Parody**

1. Hole in my Ellen

Jackman slapped Hershey on the back. "You just haven't tasted a woman yet. Ellen is my angel and Tessa my baby angel." He raised his photo again and gazed dreamily at it. A woman in a scarlet dress returned his stare. She smiled charmingly.

Then there was an ambush. They should have expected it; after all, they were deep in Nazi territory. A _rat-tat-tatting _sliced through the air. "GET DOWN!" Grimmjaw bellowed. He shot out his arm and grabbing the back of Reynolds' head, who was sitting closest to him, shoved him to the ground. These jerks didn't even give them a single minute to rest. He couldn't pinpoint were the bullets were coming from. Snipers probably.

By the time the dust had cleared, the fire had been put out. Everyone was kneeling on the ground, waiting for the worst to pass. Grimmjaw sat up first and his eyes flicked around, checking for the enemy, confirming the state of the other soldiers.

Reynolds was shaking like a cornered rat while Hershey's mournful expression went down another notch. Jackman was trying to stand up, still holding onto his precious photograph. Through the picture was a large hole. A matching hole was in Jackman's chest.

Jackman sank to the ground, his chest heaving as blood pulsated from the wound.

"Holy shit, Jackman..." Reynolds murmured.

They all ran to him, except for Grimmjaw who stood motionless.

"Jackman! Fuck, Jackman!" Hershey said hoarsely. He griped hopelessly around the fallen soldier, unsure of how to move him.

Jackman stirred a little. He raised the hole-bitten photograph. He blinked.

Through the hole was Grimmjaw.

In a scarlet dress.

* * *

2. Chocolate Pudding

The inn was quiet and still except for the occasional twang and shadow of a bird in flight.

In his room, Hershey lay on the bed, heavily bandaged. There was nothing interesting to look at. The room was unfurnished apart from the bed he occupied, a table, and a stool.

There was little for Hershey to do all day but stare at a crack in the wall.

He wondered if ants lived in it. And if those ants were black, green, or red. Maybe they were purple.

He liked purple.

Reynolds entered the room, a plastic bag in hand. The crackling of the bag broke the silence. He eased himself onto a three-legged stool beside Hershey, dumping the items in the bag onto the bedside table.

Chocolate pudding, a carton of cherry tomatoes, and a stick of butter.

Reynolds took the chocolate pudding and peeled off the plastic cover. He fished out a plastic spoon from his left jacket pocket. He proceeded to scoop out a generous dollop of pudding. Hershey eyed the quivering dessert sitting in a pile on the groove of the spoon.

"Hey, my boyfriend used to make great pudding," Hershey said.

"Oh yeah?"

"His name was Snickers."

A five-minute silence ensued.

Reynolds met Hershey's stare. He spooned the pudding into Hershey's mouth. "I know your secret, Hershey." He spooned out more pudding.

Hershey tried to talk. But his mouth was full of pudding.

"I know you're gay."

Man stared at man out of triumph. Reynolds relished his moment of victory.

Hershey swallowed the pudding down. "But Reynolds, I told you that already."

Reynolds shoved in another spoonful. "I know your secret," he repeated.

"But Reyno—" _Shove._

"Reyn—" _Shove._

"Sonofa—" _Shove._

Dribbles of pudding coursed down his chin.

"Bitc—" _Shove._

His cheeks were taut with pudding. Like a hamster.

Suddenly, Hershey turned blue.

Pudding sprayed onto the bedspread, the window, the walls, and Reynolds' face.

Pudding galore.

And Hershey dropped dead.

* * *

3. Bullet

The soldier Ehrlichmann approached them. "Sir," he said. "I wanted to ask you about—"

His voice faltered when he heard the cocking of a pistol. Ulquiorra had a gun at the base of the man's throat, face expressionless as usual. "O-oberst," the man stammered. "What are you doing, sir?"

Obersleutnant Fuchs silently watched.

Ulquiorra parted his lips. "American," he spoke in English. "Who sent you here?"

Ehrlichmann swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing up and down, above the barrel of the gun. Dry sweat appeared at his temple as his eyes darted back and forth frantically. "I-I—" He gulped. "How did you know?"

_Idiot_, Ulquiorra thought. He could easily spot American spies. They made the most trivial mistakes. "Three reasons," he said. "One, you walk like an American. Two, you talk like an American." The green eyes darkened. "Three, you gave the wrong answer. Like an American."

He pulled the trigger.

_Click._

_Clickclick._

_Clickclickclick._

_Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick._

There was a silence.

"...shit."

* * *

4. Meeting

Ulquiorra paused before the entrance of the inn.

He stared at the man who loomed over him.

Grimmjaw maintained his blue-eyed glare.

He stiffened his stance, refusing to budge, and cocked his head back, almost as if he was challenging the green-eyed officer. A shadow of a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The soldiers watched with slacked jaws. Fuchs had a look of utter disbelief while Dietrich raised his eyebrows in amusement.

Tension settled on their shoulders, freezing everything in their tracks. The silence was now deafening. Interrupted only by the heartbeats of the soldiers, which rippled through the air with a pounding force, as they held their breath.

A few swallowed hard, cold sweat appearing at their temples. They waited to see what their Oberst was going to do to this unfortunate man.

Ulquiorra parted his lips. He spoke.

"You suck."

* * *

5. Interruption

Ulquiorra paused before the entrance of the inn.

He stared at the man who loomed over him.

Grimmjaw maintained his blue-eyed glare. He stiffened his stance, refusing to budge, and cocked his head back, almost as if he was challenging the green-eyed officer. A shadow of a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The soldiers watched with slacked jaws. Fuchs had a look of utter disbelief while Dietrich raised his eyebrows in amusement. Reynolds practically hopped up and down from terror.

The two men continued to stare at each other, neither of them willing to break off their gaze first.

Tension settled on their shoulders, freezing everything in their tracks. The silence was now deafening. Interrupted only by the heartbeats of the soldiers, which rippled through the air with a pounding force, as they held their breath.

A few swallowed hard, cold sweat appearing at their temples, as they waited to see what would happen.

_Pfffrrrrt._

They sniffed the air. Turned a little green.

Reynolds spoke in a tiny voice, face tomato-red.

"Sorry. I thought that would break the tension."

* * *

A late April Fool's present :D

Chocolate Pudding was inspired by the novel _Choke._


	7. Target

_Happy birthday, you freak_

**Chapter Six**

**Target**

Ulquiorra studied the tall man who loomed over him.

He was young. He had shocking teal hair and eyes bluer than any Aryan's. The man stood there with a scowl marring his handsomely carved face, shirt carelessly open in the cool weather to reveal a well-defined chest.

Ulquiorra turned to the innkeeper behind him. _"Who is this?"_ he said.

_"One of the soldiers who arrived here a week ago,"_ the innkeeper promptly replied. _"He doesn't speak much because of a sore jaw."_

Ulquiorra was silent for a moment before he spoke. _"I see."_

The soldier glared at Ulquiorra with a look that plainly stated: "Get the fuck out of my way."

Ulquiorra didn't move. He contemplated for a bit, wondering how the man would react if he didn't budge. _He clearly cannot speak German. He must be one of the American soldiers who are lodging here. Then the others should be..._

His green eyes latched onto a bespectacled skinny man who had been watching him for the past six minutes. Seeing how the man jolted in shock, Ulquiorra deduced he was the second American soldier.

_And the one who was shot should be in bed,_ he concluded.

It took a total of two minutes and 19 seconds for Ulquiorra to analyze the entire situation.

_"Sir!"_ The skinny soldier with glasses rushed in between the two. _"I apologize for my friend's rudeness. He doesn't realize how—"_

_He's the translator, _Ulquiorra thought. _His German is not bad. Imperfect but practiced._

Ulquiorra was distracted by a bark. A half-grown German Shepherd bristled at him from the ground. It pulled its lips over its fangs, snarling.

Animals never liked him.

_"Quiet, Dog!" _the soldier scolded. _"My name is Reynolds, sir. We came to this town after one of us was injured during a battle."_

Ulquiorra detected no lie in his voice. Of course, Reynolds' words hadn't been a lie.

_"We were waiting for the army to arrive," _Reynolds said.

Now that was a lie.

_"Are there any more coming, sir?"_ Reynolds asked carefully.

_"No,"_ Ulquiorra said.

Reynolds' shoulders slightly sunk with relief. Obviously, this American was not very good at spotting lies.

Then again, Ulquiorra was a pro at lying.

_"If you will."_ He stepped forward to enter the inn.

A foot stomped hard on the doorsteps. Ulquiorra looked up. The American soldier remained in his way. Surely he knew who and what Ulquiorra was, and yet...

_Interesting._

The soldiers watched with slacked jaws.

A heavy silence settled between the two as they stared each other in the eye. Then a strange grin spread across the American's face. He pulled his arm back.

_He wouldn't..._ Ulquiorra thought.

For once he was proven wrong. Ulquiorra raised an arm to block a sudden punch. There was a _crack! _as the fist collided with his wrist.

_He is strong,_ Ulquiorra observed. When the American carried his punch, Ulquiorra side-stepped, using minimal movement as he evaded the next attack. _He is also fast. But..._

Ulquiorra didn't simply stand there and wait to get hit. He shot out his right hand, fingers aiming at the startled blue eyes.

"Tch!" The fingers missed the eyes but the American wasn't fast enough to avoid all damage. Ulquiorra's fingers scraped the side of his left eye. The skin split open underneath.

_I am faster._

The two men stopped. One glared at the other, wiping the blood under his eye. The other simply waited, waited for the next move.

The grin returned. Smiling broadly, the American pointed at Ulquiorra. Then he thumbed at his own chest.

Ulquiorra received the message.

* * *

"What were you thinking?" Reynolds said angrily.

"What?" Grimmjaw said. He picked his ear.

Reynolds paced back and forth across the room. "He was a Nazi officer!" he cried, throwing his arms in the air. "Our plan for the worst-case scenario was to remain as inconspicuous as possible. And you just blew it!"

"Whatever, nerd," Grimmjaw said lazily. "Why can't we just go and kill them in their sleep?" Dog nipped his ankle. He leaned forward to rub its ears.

"And have the entire army attack?" Reynolds snapped.

The nerd was touchier than usual.

Reynolds sighed. "I told the officers that you had anger management problems. The good news is they still believe we're one of them."

Somehow, Grimmjaw doubted that.

"As long as you don't speak English," Reynolds continued, "we can keep up the pretense of being German." He stopped pacing and gave Grimmjaw a cautious look. "How's your eye?"

It was the first time he had actually seen Grimmjaw bleed. He was surprised to see the color was red.

Grimmjaw scratched the mark under his eye. "It'll probably leave a scar."

"Well," Reynolds said, "I'm going to go tell Hershey the bad news." He glanced at Grimmjaw once more before he left the room. For someone whose life was in danger, Grimmjaw looked far too happy. In fact, the happiest Reynolds had seen him in days.

When Reynolds closed the door behind him, Grimmjaw looked out the window to watch the Nazis. Dog whined from below.

A grin spread across his face. "Finally an end to this boredom."

* * *

The German soldiers were holding a meeting in a private room. Several soldiers were bent over a radio communications device, adjusting their headphones as they turned the knobs.

_"The nerve of that American,"_ Krake said. _"Oberst, why didn't you kill him on the spot?"_

Ulquiorra remained silent.

_"How's the radio workin'?"_ Dietrich asked. _"Getting any messages?"_

_"We received news that a new general arrived to headquarters," _a soldier reported. _"He was sent by the Fuhrer himself to take charge."_

_"A new general?"_

_"Oh, I heard of him,"_ Fuchs said. _"He's a half-breed, isn't he? His father was a Japanese military official. But the Fuhrer's taken an unexpected shine to him."_

_"Can we send messages?" _Ulquiorra asked.

The soldier shook his head. _"But we sent a soldier back to deliver a report, so headquarters should know that we've found the American soldiers."_

_"Listen to the radio at all times," _Ulquiorra said. _"Every single message will be written down."_

_"Yes, Oberst."_

_"We have other matters to discuss,"_ he said, turning to the rest of the unit. "_None of you are to lay a hand on the Americans during the day."_

The soldiers raised their eyebrows in surprise.

_"Eh? But why?"_ Krake declared. _"C'mon, Oberst. We have them right under our noses!"_

_"The town will not be involved," _Ulquiorra said. _"Our orders state we kill the Americans. No other blood will be shed."_

_"So when will we attack?" _Fuchs said.

_"We will kill one soldier a night,"_ Ulquiorra said.

_"Only one?"_ Krake protested.

Ulquiorra ignored the remark._ "One of you will kill the first American,"_ he said. _"Tonight."_

They glanced at each other, on the border of volunteering or keeping their mouth shut. After all, they had all seen the quick but intense clash between the Oberst and that American. But one soldier raised his hand, a taunting smile aimed at his spineless comrades.

_"Who's the target? I'll handle this myself,"_ Krake said.

Ulquiorra looked at Krake, who sported a cocky smile on his face. _"The injured one," _he said finally.

_"How boring! Can I kill the one who attacked you?" _Krake said. _"He'd be more fun to kill than some dying rat."_

Ulquiorra's blank expression didn't change. _"Are you going against orders, Krake?"_ he said.

Krake slightly lowered his head with a grimace.

_"Kill the injured American. Finish him off before he recovers."_

* * *

Dinner with the German army was more uncomfortable than Reynolds had anticipated.

As fellow soldiers, they sat with the Nazis at a long, rectangular table. The dining table was insufferably quiet. Reynolds thought he was going to faint from the suffocation. Grimmjaw was scarfing down his food.

_"How was your stay so far?"_ Fuchs asked Reynolds.

The friendly smile disarmed him. _"It was all right,"_ Reynolds started. _"The townspeople are very kind and generous. We had a wonderful time."_ The more he talked, the more he relaxed. Soon, Reynolds was engaged in full conversation with Fuchs.

Grimmjaw, on the other hand, was doing anything but talking. He sat silently, his fork and knife clasped in both hands. His eyes were focused on only one thing.

The bowl of mashed potatoes in front of him.

A golden grove of treasure, the mashed potatoes of this inn was the best.

Grimmjaw lunged for the potatoes, but another pair of hands clasped onto the bowl.

It was the girly-looking Nazi sitting across from him. The Nazi smirked and was about to yank the bowl away when Grimmjaw slammed his knife down, pinning the bowl to the table.

The Nazi frowned, tightening his hold on the bowl.

_"Play nice, Krake,"_ the silver-haired Nazi said languidly.

Krake's lips curled into a sneer. He spat into Grimmjaw's face. Grimmjaw was forced to let go of the knife to dodge the blob of spit.

With a triumphant face, Krake took possession of the bowl. He grabbed his fork when another fork suddenly swung through the air and pierced his hand.

Grimmjaw grinned maniacally as he dug his fork in deeper. Krake howled with pain and he struggled to free his hand. When he leaned over to grab a knife, he looked up to see a shadow.

Grimmjaw cheerfully raised a bowl of hot gravy. He shoved it into Krake's face.

The soldiers all stood up. Reynolds was yelling in a panicked voice. Several soldiers peeled a rabid Krake off of Grimmjaw. Fuchs had a dumbfounded look, while Dietrich stood aside to watch, enjoying the scene.

Ignoring everything, Ulquiorra was the only one who remained sitting at the table. He tasted the mashed potatoes.

_"It's gone cold,"_ he said.

* * *

_"I'm going to kill that bastard!"_ Krake screamed. He had raised his free arm at the last second so his face was unharmed, but there was a scalding burn across his arm.

Ulquiorra looked at him with an almost bored expression. _"Not yet,"_ he said. _"He's not the target. Kill the other one first."_

_"But Oberst, you saw what he did back there!" _Krake shouted. _"That one is dangerous. We need to get rid of him as soon as possible."_

_"Krake has a point,"_ Fuchs said. _"I've never seen someone with such a violent temper."_

_"Aw, but he was so interesting to watch,"_ Dietrich said, rather regretfully.

Ulquiorra wouldn't relent. _"If you cannot control your emotions,"_ he said, _"I'll have someone else do the job."_

Krake bit his lip. He grudgingly nodded.

Ulquiorra glanced at the flushed anger on his subordinate's face. _"Imagine,"_ he said. _"Imagine the fury on his face when he sees his murdered comrade. After all, you don't want him to die so easily."_

Krake seemed surprised by Ulquiorra's unanticipated encouragement. A lofty smirk replaced his confusion.

_"Go. Now."_

* * *

The door creaked open.

The room was in complete darkness. Krake leaned in. He could make out a large lump on the bed, snuggled under the covers.

A mocking smile on his face, Krake pretended to politely enter the room, shutting the door behind him. As he crept closer to the bed, he drew out an army knife.

Quickly.

Neatly.

Silently.

No guns.

Those were Oberst Schiffer's orders.

He could hardly contain his excitement as he stood at the edge of the bed, his fingers curled tightly around the knife. Without wasting a further second, he raised the knife into the air and brought it whistling down.

The knife sunk in, hitting its target.

Blood dotted the sheets.

* * *

_Reflections_

:D

Let's have a guessing game.

Who did Krake stab and what happened to the victim?

I'm looking for details here so use your imagination.

I'll play fair-and-squre. Ch. 7 is already completed and I'm not changing anything.

* * *

_...and Answers_

One of the reviewers asked if I was a boy or girl.

Then I noticed I hadn't put that on my profile.

...I'll leave that up to your imagination.

Until next time, then.


	8. Boredom

_Dedicated to **mr. messrs**, the winner of last time's game_

**Chapter Seven**

**Boredom**

Krake's smile spread as he swung the knife down.

There was a strange _thunk!_

The knife halted, not sinking all the way in.

Shock flooded Krake's face as he stared down.

Blade caught between his teeth, Grimmjaw grinned even when the knife cut into his mouth.

Krake quickly recovered and used both hands to push the knife down.

Animal-like, Grimmjaw jerked his head violently. He snapped the blade off at the hilt, letting it fall to the ground. With that, he pounced and seized Krake by the throat.

There was a strangled yell. Krake dangled in the air, hands scrambling at the crushing grip around his windpipe.

"That's for spitting in my face, bitch," Grimmjaw sneered. He tightened his hold, ready to choke the Nazi when...

"Release him."

_What the fuck?_

Grimmjaw whirled around.

Hands in his pockets, the green-eyed Nazi had appeared from behind.

"Remove your hand," the Nazi said. His voice rippled like a calm spring pool and his words fell smoothly into the water like heavy stones.

A smirk curled Grimmjaw's lips. "Why should I? I have him in my grip."

There it was. He missed it again. In the blink of an eye, the Nazi had a blade against his throat. It was the knife Grimmjaw had broken off.

"I will say this once more," he said softly. "Release him."

Grimmjaw grinded his teeth, but the blade cut into his skin, drawing blood. His reluctance was tangible, from the way an angry tremor traveled across the offending arm. He dug his fingers into the twerp's throat, then loosened them. Krake fell to the floor, coughing as he massaged his throat.

The blade remained at Grimmjaw's neck. "Don't move."

"Don't touch me," Grimmjaw snarled.

He whistled through his teeth. There was a bark from under the bed sheet and Dog sprung out, ready for an attack.

Ulquiorra stepped aside, evading the dog. It landed on the ground next to Grimmjaw's feet, growling at the two Germans.

With the knife out of the way, this was the chance for Grimmjaw to attack the Nazi. But for the first time, he didn't want to take the risk.

He scowled at the green-eyed Nazi. "What's your name?"

The Nazi paused. He chose to reply. "Ulquiorra Schiffer."

"Ulquiorra..." Grimmjaw rolled the name in his tongue. "Well, remember this." A wide grin appeared. "My name is Grimmjaw Jaegerjaques. The next time you hear it will be _the day_ _you_ _die_."

* * *

Reynolds awoke from the noise.

He heard a scuffling from Grimmjaw's room, as if there was a fight going on next-door. Sitting up, he reached for his glasses when he felt a spasm shoot through his body.

The temperature in the room had suddenly dropped.

Unable to see anything without his glasses, Reynolds could still feel a sharp knife against his neck. "Who—" he croaked.

"Don't speak. Don't move. Don't do anything but listen."

Reynolds didn't.

"You will not attack in the day. You will not involve the townspeople. You will act as if everything is fine and we will not touch you when the sun is out," the voice continued.

Reynolds nodded shakily.

"Understand this, American," the voice said. "If you break any of the rules, we will show no mercy."

Reynolds continued to nod fervently until he felt the blade leave his throat. He grabbed his glasses and slipped them on. Blinking, he squinted in the darkness to see who it was.

There was no one in the room.

* * *

"_How was it?" _Fuchs asked.

"_A failure,"_ Ulquiorra said. _"Someone forgot his target."_

He turned his gaze onto Krake, who was battered and livid. There was a purple handprint wrapped around his throat.

"_I don't see why we couldn't kill him, _Oberst" he seethed.

"_I didn't expect you to get that beaten up,_" Ulquiorra said.

Krake jerked angrily. His shoulders shook as he lowered his head. _"Give me one more chance, sir. I swear I'll kill him."_

Ulquiorra gave him a dismissive look. _"What are the other soldiers doing?" _he asked Fuchs.

"_Helping Mr. Wirtz fix the dining room," _Fuchs replied. _"Our little fight yesterday got out of hand. But Mr. Wirtz is simply wonderful. Our soldiers feel indebted to him."_

"_Oberst!_" Krake interrupted. _"I'm telling you, I will kill that American."_

Ulquiorra mulled, but it didn't take long for him to decide. _"One last chance."_

* * *

"I'm all better now!" Hershey said cheerily. "I can walk and move around." He stood at the edge of his bed, showing off his healed side.

"Good for you," Grimmjaw said, chewing on a piece of toast. He tossed the rest to Dog, who gobbled it up.

"Hey, Reynolds," Hershey said. "What's wrong?"

Reynolds lifted his head from his stupor. "Nothing!" he said. "I'm fine, I just..." He shook his head.

"By the way," Hershey said to Grimmjaw, "what was that racket in your room last night?"

"Not much," Grimmjaw said lazily. "Some hermaphrodite tried to kill me in my sleep."

The two stared at him in shock. "So last night..." Reynolds murmured, "...wasn't a dream?" He'd been in denial.

"Did something happen to you?"

"I received a warning," Reynolds said with a shiver. "The Germans aren't going to attack us during the day to protect the townspeople. But they'll try to kill us at night."

"They found out?" Hershey said.

Grimmjaw snorted. "They knew from the moment they saw us."

He paused, a more serious look in his eyes. "Be careful of the green-eyed one," he said. "That one is a monster."

"We have to leave town immediately," Reynolds said.

"To where?" Grimmjaw demanded. "The Allies are going to invade soon anyway. Who knows what we'll run into when we try to escape. Here, all we have to do is survive the night."

"You make it sound like it's easy."

Grimmjaw shrugged. "We can always take a couple of townspeople hostage."

"That's ridiculous!"

Grimmjaw slammed his chair to the ground. "Then set your priorities fucking straight, nerd! If you want to keep frolicking around with that servant chick, it's none of my fucking business."

Reynolds turned beet red. "G-Greta isn't anything like that!" he sputtered.

"Right," Grimmjaw sneered. "Whatever." He crossed the room to open the door. Dog followed behind.

"Where are you going?" Hershey asked.

"Out."

* * *

Grimmjaw's temper didn't improve when he stepped outside.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was still blazing. Everyone had returned to their homes for supper. Everyone except for that mentally-retarded kid.

"_Wonderweiss!" _Mr. Wirtz called in vain, waving at the boy. _"Come inside. You haven't eaten in days!"_

Wonderweiss curled himself into a ball, refusing to budge. Mr. Wirtz's shoulders slumped in defeat. _"What is wrong with him these days?" _he asked Greta, who brought out Wonderweiss' meal. _"He usually comes in when it's suppertime."_

Dietrich, who was passing by, snickered.

Grimmjaw sat on the doorsteps of the inn, watching Wonderweiss smear pudding on himself. His thoughts were interrupted when Dog barked.

"Shut up."

When Dog continued to bark, Grimmjaw looked up.

Standing in front of him was the Nazi with the green eyes. He was watching Grimmjaw silently.

Grimmjaw grinned. "I was feeling fucking bored," he said, standing up. "Ulquiorra, was it? Let's continue that last fight."

Ulquiorra's face remained impassive. "What is your reason?" he asked.

"Do I need one?" Grimmjaw said.

"You know you're going to die soon," Ulquiorra said. "So why do you fight the inevitable? Why not accept it instead of wasting needless energy?"

Grimmjaw stared at him incredulously. "You're one boring fuck," he said. "What's the fun in dying then?"

A mad glint danced in his eyes. "FIGHTING _IS _LIVING!" he shouted. "YOU LIVE TO FIGHT! YOU FIGHT TO LIVE! THAT'S THE WAY IT'S ALWAYS BEEN FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS! OTHERWISE, YOU'RE DROWNING IN THIS MINDLESS, _SUFFOCATING _EXISTENCE EVERY _FUCKING _DAY!"

_How crude,_ thought Ulquiorra.

Spent, Grimmjaw grinned. "Fight, kill, live to the fullest, and when you go down, drag everyone else with you."

"You're afraid of being lonely?" Ulquiorra said. It wasn't a question. As dry as it sounded, it was more like a mocking statement.

Grimmjaw sneered. "Like I would be." Ulquiorra glanced at Dog.

"You don't fear death."

Grimmjaw laughed, harshly. "Come on, Ulquiorra. You're a soldier! You know there's a shitload of crap worse than death."

"Then what do you fear?"

The question was flung at him. Grimmjaw stopped laughing. He glared at the Nazi. "Why the hell should I tell you?"

"So you have something." He was now goading him on, trying to push him to the edge.

Grimmjaw hated mind games. But he also hated to lose. He smirked. "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

When Ulquiorra didn't reply, his smirk widened. "Or we could fight and tell." He pointed at the mark under his eye. "I'm itching to make the same one on you."

Now a look of disdain was on Ulquiorra's face. But he conceded. "Come," he said.

Grimmjaw pounced, moving surprisingly fast and fluid for his size. This time, Ulquiorra had to move a bit more to avoid his punches.

_His fighting style is the opposite of mine,_ Ulquiorra thought. _His attacks lack discipline and control. But he is stronger, more aggressive. And he adapts well._

_If this fight ever became serious..._

Ulquiorra leaped back to avoid a kick but found himself cornered to a wall.

"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?" Grimmjaw yelled. "IS THAT ALL, ULQUIORRA?"

Grimmjaw smashed his fist into the wall, which crumbled into dust from the impact.

"Unnecessary."

Ulquiorra was in the air, above Grimmjaw. "You have too much unnecessary movement." He plunged his hand toward Grimmjaw's face.

Grimmjaw didn't even have time to react. But the fingers only grazed the right side of his face, cutting into the skin under his eye.

Grimmjaw snarled, clutching his right eye. As he wiped the blood, a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "You..."

"Now there's another mark to match the other," Ulquiorra said.

_Fucking perfectionist,_ Grimmjaw thought.

He lunged for another attack. But this time, Dog got in the way. The German shepherd barked and suddenly rushed between the two men. Grimmjaw tripped over the dog and with a yell, he pitched forward.

Ulquiorra's eyes widened slightly. For once, he was too surprised to react and also fell as Grimmjaw toppled over him.

The pair of blue eyes stared straight into the melancholic green eyes. Their lips were smashed against each other.

"SHIT!" Grimmjaw tore his mouth away, spitting and sputtering. "FUCK!" he howled. He continued to swear some more.

Ulquiorra was silent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Grimmjaw turned on him, face burning with embarrassment and fury. He grabbed Ulquiorra by the collar and growled through gritted teeth, "Never...Never breathe a fucking word of what happened just now."

Ulquiorra gave him a withered look and slapped the hand off. Like he ever would. But he was also the type to take advantage of any situation. "Then tell me."

"What?!" Grimmjaw snapped.

"Tell me what you fear."

"FUCK YOU!" Grimmjaw snarled, looking annoyed as hell. He whipped around to return to the inn, Dog trailing happily behind. But then he stopped and faced Ulquiorra. He spat out one word:

"Boredom."

* * *

Later that evening, a shadow slunk toward Grimmjaw's room.

Krake stood outside the door. He tensed, ready to shoot the bastard but when he burst in, the room was empty. Except for the German shepherd that growled at him.

_They must have gone out._ He scowled.

The dog barked, snarling with spit. It bent low to the floor, its fur on its ends as it prepared to attack.

Krake shot a contemptuous look at the dog.

Then, a cruel smile curved his lips.

* * *

Grimmjaw was the first one to enter the inn.

After the exhilarating fight and horrifying act that followed, he joined the others to look for a restaurant. For once, they had dinner outside to celebrate Hershey's recovery. Besides, Reynolds wanted to avoid the Germans.

They were surprised by a large commotion.

Greta, the servant, was screaming at the top of her lungs. _"Reynolds!"_ she cried. _"Do something!"_

They hurried over to where there were more screams and shouts. Surrounded by terrified people was a dog on fire. It was yipping in pain and running in furious circles, desperate to take the fire out.

"Oh my god..." Hershey whispered.

Grimmjaw leaped forward, wrenching off his jacket. He closed his jacket over the whimpering dog, enduring the biting flames and heat.

Mr. Wirtz hurried over with a bucket of water and splashed it over them.

There was a hiss as the fire died out. Smoke and an acrid stench of burnt flesh filled the room.

Slowly, Grimmjaw removed his jacket.

It was a terrible sight.

Dog had been burnt so badly, most of its beautiful fur was missing. Its skin was so scalded, it fell off in clumps. Grimmjaw reached a hand that seemed to slightly shake as he touched what was left of the dog's face.

A small tongue flitted out, licking his hand.

He patted its head.

But it no longer moved.

Greta began to cry. Mrs. Wirtz wrapped her spindly arms around the sobbing girl, as Mr. Wirtz shooed everyone away.

Reynolds and Hershey didn't know what to do. It was the first time anyone had ever seen Grimmjaw like this. He sat there quietly, his arms closed around the dead animal.

Reynolds was about to comfort Grimmjaw when someone whispered in his ear. The green-eyed Nazi stood next to him.

"He wishes to meet him in the tool shed," he said.

"You!" Reynolds cried. "How could you?!"

He was met with Ulquiorra's deadpan expression.

"It is unfortunate," Ulquiorra said finally. "I never asked for unnecessary bloodshed." Before he walked away, Reynolds wondered if that was a sliver of regret he saw in the poker face.

Not wanting to waste a single second, Reynolds approached Grimmjaw cautiously. "Grimmjaw..."

"Where is he?" Grimmjaw said. His voice was flat, devoid of all the emotions he usually carried bursting to the rim.

Startled, Reynolds replied before he could stop himself: "In the tool shed."

Grimmjaw stood up. He wrapped the body in his jacket. "Wait here," he said.

"Are you sure you want to—" Hershey started.

"Wait here," Grimmjaw repeated. "This won't take long."

* * *

_Reflections_

Hm.

People seem to be losing interest in this fanfic :(

The author can't help but get discouraged

Any support out there? D:


	9. Monster

_Before we begin..._

A huge **thank you** to all the awesome readers who took the time to leave a review!

I was feeling iffy about continuing this fic (cuz of issues in the big bad real world), but your support is what made me want to finish

Now I'll shut up. Happy reading.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Monster**

A mocking smile greeted him when Grimmjaw stepped into the tool shed. It was dark inside and the air was musty, but Grimmjaw could trace the girlish outline of the Nazi soldier as he lounged against a tractor.

"How was my gift?" he asked in accented English.

Grimmjaw was silent. A shadow covered his face, masking all emotion. In the sweaty darkness, only a pair of blue pinpoints glowed dangerously. The air rippled with tension. Suffocated, nothing dared to move.

"Or did you prefer medium well-done?" Krake taunted.

There was a jerk from Grimmjaw. His pupils dilated, almost sharpening into slits. "_Bitch_," he breathed, his rage squeezed into one word. "You're going to pay."

Krake didn't flinch. "Please," he said coldly. "You're not even armed." He waved his pistol.

Grimmjaw curled his lips into a sneer. "I figured I wouldn't need a gun to rip you apart."

Incensed, Krake raised his pistol and began firing bullets, aiming for the legs and other nonvital regions. Grimmjaw leaped to the side to evade them. Lowering his body to the ground, he glided his way through the shed. A bullet singed past his shoulder, dangerously close.

_Crap. This is gonna be harder than I thought._

"That mutt of yours," Krake sneered. "You wanna know how I cooked it? Sheesh, it was being all noisy, barking its head off." A satisfied smile spread across his face. "But when the barks turned into screams...Like you Americans say, 'it was music to my ears.'"

Grimmjaw found a spot behind a pile of shovels. He waited there, panting as he regained his breath; bullets ricocheted off the metal. He glanced at his surroundings, eyes falling on an old rusty gun with a long bayonet fitted on the muzzle.

"It's no use, American," Krake continued to taunt. "You're going to die here. After I'm finished with you, I'll kill your comrades as well. So come out and accept your death like a man. I'll make it a little easier for you."

Krake stopped in front of the pile of shovels. "What do you say, American?"

A shovel flew in his direction as reply. Krake ducked to avoid the shovel, and cocked his pistol, shouting, "That was your last chance! I'm going to kill you slowly now! I'll flay every inch of your skin, savoring each second—!"

He choked.

A spike speared through him. Grimmjaw had appeared, thrusting the bayonet through Krake's chest.

Blood spurted out of Krake's mouth. "...You—bastard..."

A wide grin spread across Grimmjaw's face. "You talk too much."

The smile vanished as quickly as it came. Grimmjaw positioned the gun. "Later, bitch."

He pulled the trigger, blowing off Krake's torso.

* * *

"_Clean it up."_

The soldiers stood uncertainly around the corpse. They had a hard time recognizing the body, save for the black uniform, now crusted with blood. What made it hard to recognize was the missing upper half. The body ended at the hip, bones startling white jutting out at the sides. The rest...were scattered.

The soldiers began to gather the separated pieces and conveniently grabbed shovels nearby.

When Krake didn't appear to breakfast the next morning, Ulquiorra led the soldiers to the tool shed, well aware of what must have happened.

"_The idiot," _Fuchs said. _"He rants about killing the American and gets himself killed instead."_

Ulquiorra barely glanced at the corpse. He had expected this. And it didn't really matter to him who emerged as the victor. Either way, a parasite was exterminated.

"_What a monster," _a soldier muttered. _"To blow off a human torso like this..."_

Monster could be a correct description of this American.

Grimmjaw Jaegerjaques. Ulquiorra didn't devote much time to an in-depth assessment. After all, why bother analyzing a man who was going to be dead in a few days? Yet, he was aware of a number of things. One, Grimmjaw had a short temper. Two, Grimmjaw resorted 90 percent of the time to violence as an option. And three, Grimmjaw was going to need more than one soldier to finish him off.

"_Krake is dead?" _Dietrich appeared at the entrance of the tool shed. _"Now I'm gonna be lonely with no one to talk to."_

"_What'd you come down here for, Dietrich?" _Fuchs asked.

"_To see the Oberst," _Dietrich said. _"We received an important message through radio."_

Instead of following Ulquiorra and Fuchs to the inn, Dietrich started walking in the other direction.

_"Aren't you coming with us?"_ Fuchs asked.

_"Nah,"_ Dietrich declined. _"I wanna go see the kitty who ripped apart our Krake."_

Ulquiorra didn't deter him. It wasn't his business to protect Dietrich from getting clawed in the face.

* * *

Grimmjaw stood somberly outside, watching the church from a distance. While he was taking care of the Nazi bitch, the nerd and the servant chick went off to bury Dog in the church graveyard. He turned and saw his reflection on the inn's window. He was filthy. Back then, he had to dive through the dirt to avoid the bullets. Blowing up a torso less than a meter away didn't help either.

He stiffened. He raised his nose, sniffing the air as he caught a repelling odor.

"Yo!"

Grimmjaw turned to spot the silver-haired Nazi. The look in his eyes would have stopped anyone in their tracks. But the Nazi simply sidled closer.

"You played with our soldier well, yeah?"

The scowl deepened. "Fuck off," Grimmjaw said. "Or I'll split you in two."

"Oh, I'd like to see you try," Dietrich goaded, unaffected by the evident threat.

Grimmjaw aimed a kick at the Nazi's leg. But Dietrich skipped out of harm's way, surprisingly light on his feet. "You'll need to be faster than that!"

Irked by the mocking tone, Grimmjaw swung his arm to punch the fox-face in. But unlike Ulquiorra, who preferred to avoid all physical contact and usually evaded attacks, Dietrich did not try to avoid Grimmjaw's fist. Instead, he wrapped his spindly fingers around the wrist and pulled. Using Grimmjaw's own power to his advantage, Dietrich yanked Grimmjaw to the ground. Never the type to give up, Grimmjaw shot out his hand and grabbed a fistful of Dietrich's collar. He was also the type to drag others down with him.

Ulquiorra arrived in time to hear a large thump. _"Dietrich," _he started. _"I want everyone in the room. Go join the other soldiers—" _He paused when he saw the strange spectacle in front of him.

Grimmjaw was on the ground, looking slightly dazed. Dietrich was on top of him, his collar still crumpled in Grimmjaw's fist. "Eager, aren't you?" Dietrich grinned. He wiggled.

Ulquiorra's eyebrows raised by a fraction.

Grimmjaw was brought back to Earth rather abruptly. "GET OFF ME!" He tried to knee Dietrich in a delicate region, but the silver-haired man was out of harm's way in a flash.

Dietrich skipped to hide behind Ulquiorra. "Pity we were interrupted," he said with a false tone of regret. "Maybe next time."

Grimmjaw snarled.

Since his input was unnecessary at this point, Ulquiorra turned to walk away, leaving Grimmjaw bristling like an angry cat. Dietrich followed him to the inn. On their way up the stairs, Ulquiorra spotted Reynolds with a dirt-covered shovel. They must have buried their own dog, as well.

Behind Ulquiorra, Dietrich was humming a tune.

_"What are you planning, Dietrich?" _Ulquiorra said quietly.

Dietrich snickered. _"Nothing that concerns you, Oberst."_

* * *

When they reached the room, the soldiers positioned in front of the radio slipped off their headphones and saluted, standing upright and their feet a shoulder apart.

Fuchs appeared tense, worried about what was to come. He knew this message was from the new general. The general who had practically seized control of their headquarters in a matter of days.

And Fuchs had heard rumors about the new general from quite a while back. Some of them good, a few bad, and all of them frightening.

They talked about how polite he was, what a good disposition he had. They also talked about how he was a wolf in sheep's clothing

Meanwhile, Ulquiorra glanced at everyone in the room. His gaze was more decoration than anything else. He was occupied by what he had just witnessed.

A number of possibilities opened up to him as he examined the motives of Silber Dietrich. Though Dietrich acted in a careless manner, Ulquiorra knew his actions were all meticulously thought out. There was a deeper meaning as to why he approached that American. That reason wasn't something as trivial as satisfying boredom or lust. No, Dietrich was a sly man. And sly men coveted power. It also made Ulquiorra wonder why Dietrich only managed to obtain the title of Sturmbannfuhrer, a man as capable as himself.

He switched attention, focusing on what was at hand. He didn't completely ignore the anxiety that was present in the room. The soldiers in charge of the radio had gone white; dry sweat appeared at their temples. His green eyes narrowed, aware that something was wrong. _"Report," _he said.

The soldiers hesitated, biting their bottom lips, shuffling their feet, showing all signs of discomfort. _"Sir..." _one spoke up, reluctant. _"We just...received an order."_

Ulquiorra waited for the message. When it never came, he expressed a hint of annoyance. _"What is it?"_

The soldier swallowed, bobbing his Adam's apple. He clenched his hands into tight fists.

_"The general ordered we destroy this town."_

* * *

Hershey smothered a gasp.

He was crouched outside the room, eavesdropping on their conversation. Having felt useless for the past few weeks, Hershey decided to use some of his rusty German skills to make up for the burden he placed on the others.

He never expected he'd overhear this.

He pressed his ear closer to the door. They were still talking.

"_What?" _Fuchs said, his voice filled with disbelief. _"Destroy this town? But why?"_

The soldier shook his head sadly. _"The general holds the town responsible for sheltering the Americans. Everyone is to be branded as a traitor. They will be executed for going against the Fatherland."_

"_That's outrageous!" _Fuchs exclaimed.

Dietrich had an unreadable expression. He was no longer smiling.

"_Quiet, Fuchs," _Ulquiorra said.

"_Oberst, are you going to go ahead with this madness?" _Fuchs asked.

_"Our orders have changed," _Ulquiorra said. _"Notify the army waiting outside. They will round up the townspeople."_

He glanced at the soldiers. _"We will kill the Americans. They will not expect an attack at daylight."_

There was no response. _"Understood?"_

"_Yes, sir!"_

Ulquiorra opened the door.

"_Where are you goin', Oberst?" _Dietrich asked.

"_To deal with a rat."_

* * *

Upon hearing the orders to destroy the town, Hershey tore himself from the door and sprinted back to his room. He sat on his bed, hands clasped on his knees to stop them from shaking.

_What are we going to do? _he thought. _We can't let the townspeople get killed like this._

He leaped up from his bed. _I have to tell Grimmjaw and Reynolds first. Warn them of what's going to happen._

He reached for the door when it opened by itself. "Grimmjaw!" Hershey said, relief flooding his face. "I have something to tell y—"

He froze.

It wasn't Grimmjaw. A slim man with black hair and cold green eyes stood in front of him.

_Be careful of the green-eyed one._

Grimmjaw's warning echoed in Hershey's head. Too shocked to comprehend anything, Hershey stared at the Nazi soldier.

_That one is a monster._

"Tell what?" the man asked.

Hershey jolted. He recognized the voice. The voice that had been so indifferent when it ordered the slaughter of the town. This man was the _Oberst_. The one leading the army.

Hershey stumbled back. He grabbed the revolver on his drawer and pointed it at the man.

The man showed no reaction. His green eyes remained on Hershey's face.

"Don't come any closer," Hershey choked, raising the gun to the man's head. "I heard everything! You heartless bastards, are you really going to kill everyone in this town? After all they've done for you?"

The man didn't react, merely watched. "Why do you care so much, American? They are not your people."

Hershey stared at him incredulously. "_Monster_..."

"It is the general's orders," the man replied. "Our opinion has no weight in this matter."

"You don't have to blindly follow some psycho's words!" Hershey yelled. "Why can't you think for yourself?"

The man's expression seemed to slightly change. Hershey wondered if there was a crack in the poker face. "What do you know about blindness?" the man murmured.

Hershey blinked.

He stared at his hands. They were empty.

His gun was now at his throat. "The ones who are truly blind..." the man said, "...are you."

There was a gunshot.

* * *

"What was that?"

Grimmjaw looked up. He just came out of a shower, water beads trailing down his chest. Drying his teal hair with a towel, he went to Reynolds' room.

"Oy, nerd," he said. "Did you hear that?"

Reynolds wasn't in his room. Frowning, Grimmjaw went downstairs. Like he expected, he found the nerd in the company of that servant chick. They were laughing and acting all chummy. Grimmjaw wanted to hurl.

"Did I hear something?" Reynolds repeated. "No, I don't think I did."

Grimmjaw paused. "Hey, where's the Choco Fruitcake?"

Reynolds looked slightly alarmed. "I think he went upstairs. Did you check his room?"

Grimmjaw slung the towel over his neck as he ran up the stairs. His heart pounded in his chest. For some strange reason, he felt as if something had gone terribly wrong.

Grimmjaw burst into Hershey's room.

"Choco Fruitcake..."

On the floor was Hershey. A fountain of blood gushed out of the hole in his throat. The blood inched its way through the floorboards, pooling around his head.

Grimmjaw simply stood there. He never felt anything like this before. Utterly helpless.

When a shudder passed through Hershey's body, it was a like a trigger. "_FUCK!_"

With a burst of energy, he grabbed the towel around his neck and threw it onto the bleeding neck. He pressed down hard, trying to prevent the blood from spilling out. The towel soaked the blood, dyed crimson. But it wasn't enough.

Hershey's eyes fluttered open. He tried to say something but the words wouldn't form. _I've got to tell him. I need to tell him._

"WHO DID THIS TO YOU?!" Grimmjaw roared. "WHO THE HELL DID THIS TO YOU?"

Hershey tried to speak. A red bubble blossomed at the side of his mouth. _I need to tell them. Tell them what I heard. Warn—_

He coughed. Vomited out more blood. His entire body began to convulse and his limbs shook. He gasped for air but wind whistled through the pulsating hole in his neck. Hershey had turned white, bordering a translucent blue. A striking contrast to the blood everywhere...

Grimmjaw gritted his teeth. He lowered his head and spotted the revolver on the ground. He reached for the gun. Mustering all the will he could, he pressed it against Hershey's head.

Grimmjaw dug his pockets for the ten bucks he had taken from Jackman. He laid it, gently, on Hershey's chest. "...Give this to the jackass first," he murmured.

Hershey closed his eyes.

* * *

Reynolds was feeling uneasy. Grimmjaw hadn't returned yet and already several minutes had passed since he left to check on Hershey.

Anxious, he stood up.

"_Sit down."_

A group of German soldiers appeared at their table. The soldiers looked unfamiliar; Reynolds recognized none of them. Obliged, he slowly sank into his chair.

"_You, girl, stand up," _a soldier ordered.

Greta stood up hesitantly. _"Is there something wrong, sir?"_

The soldiers were all stone-faced and their lips were pressed together in grim lines. "_There's nothing wrong," _the soldier replied tersely. _"We have an announcement to make. Everyone will gather in the church."_

Reynolds was about to rise when the soldier clamped a hand onto his shoulder and pushed him down. _"Remain in your seat."_

Greta shot him a worried look as she and the other people in the inn were ushered out. Reynolds shrugged helplessly.

One soldier remained behind to guard him._ Distraction. Think of some kind of distraction._

"_Um, excuse me?" _Reynolds asked tentatively.

"_What?" _the soldier snapped.

"_Did you hear a gunshot?" Perfect. What a lame thing to ask._

"_What?"_

"_Did you hear—"_

A gunshot rang in the air.

The soldier whirled around. Reynolds took the chance to grab the soldier's waist and tackle him to the ground. He snatched the man's gun and smacked him in the head with the rifle butt, knocking him unconscious.

Reynolds raised his head, panting. He scrambled up, feeling an ominous chill.

_Which way do I go? Do I go after the townspeople?_

_Or do I go see what happened to Grimmjaw and Hershey?_

_God, what am I supposed to do?_

* * *

"_And the townspeople?"_

"_They were led to the church, Oberst."_

The soldiers fell silent. Fuchs, in particular, looked shaken by the whole ordeal. Ulquiorra made the right choice to have the outside army kill the townspeople. They never met the victims before.

Ulquiorra glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. _"It is 12:56:42. The countdown starts now."_

"_Why are we doing this?" _Fuchs said in a hoarse voice.

"_A soldier never asks questions."_

"_How many Americans do we have to hunt, Oberst?" _Dietrich asked.

"_Two," _Ulquiorra said. _"I will handle one. The rest will go after the remaining American." _

"_Is the Oberst going to fight that crazy American? _a soldier whispered to another. _"The one that blew Krake to pieces?"_

Dietrich smiled. _"It takes a monster to defeat one."_

* * *

_Reflections_

That was a long chapter.

Poor Hershey.

* * *

_...and Answers_

Q & A time (my favorite)! So let's start.

1. Female Bleach characters

_A. _I've thought of adding a Bleach female from the beginning. She'll be another "hidden" character like Dietrich and Krake. Be on the lookout for one in the future :)

2. Setting of the story

_A. _Nice prediction, ColdPersianFusion. I won't spoil it for you here but I will give a little hint: the setting will definitely change.

3. Romance

_A._ lol, I actually added the fan service to annoy my friend, an Ulquihime fan. Never thought it would generate such a response. To not mislead any readers, I will say that the genre for this fanfic isn't romance. But as a thank-you for all the support of you fangirls out there, I can always add in an "accident" or two.

4. Dog's Death

_A._ Uh, yeah. Dog is dead. I apologize if readers were particularly traumatized by Dog's manner of death. I was pissed as well when I read an article about a puppy being set on fire by some psycho brats.

5. Inspiration

_A._ Not really a question, but I wanted to thank Bean Langdon for telling me what fanfic inspired this story. If my friend had never read _Not Even Human_ by Kazuhiro, _Shrapnel_ wouldn't have been possible.

* * *

Please continue with the support :D

It's nice to know when a chapter's appreciated


	10. God

**Chapter Nine**

**God**

_13:20:29_

Grimmjaw lowered the revolver. He removed the blood-soaked towel from Hershey's throat and covered the face.

"Two little Americans playing with a gun," a sing-song voice floated in. "One shot the other and then there was one."

Grimmjaw glared at the doorway. "There are still two of us left," he muttered.

"Or is there?" Dietrich said, tilting his head innocently.

Grimmjaw stared at the crooked smile. "What did you do to the nerd?" he asked slowly.

The silver-haired man waggled his finger. "Not telling!"

Seizing Dietrich by the collar, Grimmjaw shoved the gun into his face. "Ready to talk?"

"My, my." Dietrich raised his hands in mock surrender. "That temper of yours is going to get you somewhere. Why don't you put the gun down and we have a little chit-chat?"

"I'm a little fucking busy here, if you didn't notice," Grimmjaw said.

"But not too busy to talk," Dietrich piped up. "The longer you talk, the longer you live."

He snapped his fingers. Behind him, a horde of soldiers appeared, all pointing their guns at Grimmjaw.

Grimmjaw counted.

One.

Three.

Six.

He sucked at math, so he stopped at that.

Dietrich coaxed the gun out of his hand. Scowling, Grimmjaw released Dietrich and plopped down on the bed, crossing his legs. "Spit it out."

Dietrich sauntered over to a chair and sat down. He clasped his long fingers together. "So tell me," he said. "Why did you attack the Oberst when you first met him?"

Grimmjaw stared at him. "That's the question you wanted to ask? Fucking fox, you have way too much time on your hands."

"Oh, believe me," Dietrich grinned. "I'll have all the time to ask other questions later." He twiddled his thumb. "So why'd you attack him?"

Grimmjaw scowled. "You don't need an explanation for every shitty thing," he said. "I attacked him cuz I felt like it."

"Why?"

Grimmjaw's lips curled into a smile. "Because I knew," he said. "I knew he was strong the moment I saw him. Sure, I also knew he was some Nazi and all. But at that moment, only one thought was going through my head." He leaned in.

"_I'm not bored anymore._"

Grimmjaw reclined back. "Done? Can I kill you now?"

Dietrich's grin grew a bit wider. "You never cease to amuse me." He rose from his chair. "We're done. I've already decided."

Before Grimmjaw could question the Nazi's words, he was interrupted by the _rat-tatting _of machine guns outside. Screams filled the air. He leaped up. "What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, we're doing a little spring cleaning," Dietrich said.

Grimmjaw looked out the window. Outside, soldiers were mowing down the townspeople on the street, killing indiscriminately. They forced their way into the homes and began shooting at the inhabitants.

"Just finishing off the traitors," Dietrich translated.

"Traitors...?" Grimmjaw caught onto things quickly. He turned to Dietrich. "It's because they helped the enemy..." he said slowly. "Because they helped us."

"Ah, you're not as stupid as you look," Dietrich said.

A disgusted smirk appeared on Grimmjaw's face. "You Nazis have sunk pretty damn low."

He flung the chair at the window, shattering the glass. The soldiers at the doorway began shooting at him but he leaped through the window and onto the roof.

Clambering to the window of his own room, he kicked through. Not wasting a second, Grimmjaw grabbed his M1 Carbine and the two grenades that were left. He waited on the windowsill for the soldiers to reach his room. As soon as they burst in, he yanked out the safety pin with his teeth and flung the grenade at the soldiers.

"Special delivery." He jumped as the room exploded.

Nimbly, Grimmjaw landed on the ground on two feet.

"Oy!"

Dietrich leaned out of a window, waving his arm. "I'd worry about the remaining little American!" he called out. "Ulquiorra personally went after him."

Grimmjaw didn't wait to hear what else he had to say.

* * *

_13:13:16_

"_Come this way."_

The old couple followed. They bustled their way to the backdoor, occasionally pausing to fearfully watch the others being marched out of the inn by soldiers. A man led them, throwing glances over his shoulder.

"_Hurry," _the man said urgently. _"If you go this way, you'll be safe. Go quickly to the bridge."_

"_Thank you, sir,"_ Mr. Wirtz said. _"How could we ever repay this kindness?"_

"_Please, just hurry—" _The man suddenly froze.

There was a presence behind him. He slowly turned to face another man. A look of terror flitted past his face. _"Oberst Schiffer..."_ he whispered.

Ulquiorra stood there with his hands in his pockets. _"...What are you doing?" _he said. _"Fuchs."_

Fuchs swallowed hard. He tried to hold the Oberst's knife-like gaze.

"_What's wrong?" _Ulquiorra said. _"I'm talking to you."_

Fuchs tried not to blink.

"_What are you trying to pull—" _Ulquiorra continued, "—_helping traitors escape?"_

Fuchs lowered his gaze.

Nobody dared to move. Fuchs stood dumbly. Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz cowered on the floor, unable to move.

"_...No response?"_

Fuchs clenched his teeth.

"_Very well."_

Ulquiorra turned to Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz, who flinched when the acid eyes glazed over them. "_Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz, you are hereby accused of treason," _he began.

"_But why?" _Mr. Wirtz dared to interrupt.

"_For sheltering American soldiers."_

Mr. Wirtz's eyes widened in shock. He could guess who the Americans were.

Then Ulquiorra did something rather uncharacteristic. He gave the old man a second chance. _"Do you regret your actions? Are you willing to hand over the Americans?"_

Mr. Wirtz bit his lip. A tremor passed through him as he clutched his wife closer. Mrs. Wirtz looked briefly at Mr. Wirtz, then dipped her chin and closed her eyes, acceptance evident on her face. Mr. Wirtz spoke in a pained but firm voice.

"_I don't know of Americans, I only know of human beings."_

There was silence. _"I see."_

Two gunshots rang in the air.

Fuchs jerked his head up. When he saw the gun in Ulquiorra's hand, he whirled around.

Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz lay on the ground. Mr. Wirtz had his arms wrapped around Mrs. Wirtz, locked in an eternal embrace. There was a bullet through each of their heads.

As Ulquiorra lowered the gun, the backdoor burst open.

Reynolds stood outside, panting. His eyes darted around and landed first on Ulquiorra, then a trembling Fuchs, and finally, the dead Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz. He choked when he spotted them. "No... No—this can't be happen—!"

He stumbled backward and broke into a run.

"_Oberst!" _Soldiers appeared at Ulquiorra's side when they heard the gunshots. _"Should we go after him?"_

"_No." _Ulquiorra turned to Fuchs. _"Escort Oberstleutnant Fuchs to a room and stand guard. I will deal with him later."_

"_What about the American, sir?"_

"_He is mine to kill."_

* * *

_13:28:03_

Reynolds was in a daze. He wondered if this was all a dream. No, a nightmare. If only he could wake up.

He ducked instinctively when the firing began. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with clouds of dust. People screamed as they tried to flee from the soldiers. They scrambled over each other, jostling and shoving. He moved uncertainly as if to help, but each time he approached someone, the person was shot.

This was worse than the battlefield. This wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.

He yelled when something grabbed his ankle. It was an old man, bleeding from the head. He crawled through the dust, dragging a torn leg.

"_Help them!_" the old man cried.

"_Help...?"_

"_They're in the church! They're going to die in the church!"_

The church stood in the center of the town. Reynolds saw soldiers lead a huge throng of people to the church doors.

Reynolds looked back at the old man. _"I-is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can give?"_

The old man looked at him.

He looked at him with eyes that would forever haunt him until the end. The old man raised his head, his gaze focused on the church's lonely cross that pierced the sky.

"_Give them tomorrow._"

* * *

_13:45:29_

Grimmjaw was looking for the nerd.

Because of all the fucking dust and screeching, he was having a hard time.

"Oy, nerd!" He grabbed a skinny blonde with glasses. It wasn't him.

"_Please, sir! Help me, please—"_

Disgusted, Grimmjaw threw him to the ground. He didn't understand a fucking word the guy was saying anyway.

He spotted another blondie. But it was the town retard. He was surrounded by a circle of soldiers, who laughed at him, kicking and spitting on him.

"_Look at this dumbshit! It's retards like these that dirty our nation!"_

"_How do you want to kill him? Should I stick this gun and—" _Yells pierced the air.

Grimmjaw glanced over his shoulder. Wonderweiss sat on the ground, this time surrounded by dead soldiers with broken necks. He rose and trailed after a butterfly.

Grimmjaw faced forward. "I said he was fucked in the head."

Someone suddenly crashed into him. "BASTARD, I'M GOING TO KILL—" Grimmjaw looked at the man he held by the throat. "Nerd." He released him.

"Grimmjaw!" Reynolds coughed. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Grimmjaw scowled.

"Where's Hershey?"

Grimmjaw hesitated. "He's...waiting for us. Let's go. The Nazis blew up the fucking bridge so we gotta find another way."

"We can't!" Reynolds burst out. "They're killing everyone—the church—we have to go save—"

"What the hell are you saying?" Grimmjaw interrupted. "Are you insane?! Those people are going to die—there's nothing we can do to change—"

"THEN WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" Reynolds screamed. "ABANDON THE PEOPLE WHO SAVED US?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Grimmjaw roared. "IS THIS ABOUT YOUR WOMAN? IS IT, NERD?! ARE YOU GOING TO DIE FOR SOME BITCH YOU'VE KNOWN FOR ONLY A WEEK?"

"DON'T CALL HER THAT!" Reynolds bellowed. He staggered back, panting and purple in the face. "Don't you dare call her that," he said in a quieter voice.

He steadied his breathing as the look in his eyes changed. "I'm going back."

Grimmjaw was quiet.

"I'm going to the church and there's nothing you can do to stop me." Reynolds turned around. "Good-bye, Grimmjaw."

Grimmjaw watched the nerd run. A smirk slowly appeared. "You've changed, fucking nerd."

* * *

_14:16:47_

The instant Reynolds reached the church he noticed only one thing. The silence.

When he realized there were no soldiers, he hurriedly pushed past the church doors, and then stopped.

He gagged. The stench of blood filled the air. Horror coursed through him as he stared at the sight in front of him. The church, the sacred ground, was littered with dead. They were mostly women and children.

He made his way through. The red seeped into the cracks of the stone floor, painting a cross of blood. Crimson reflected off the dusty chandelier. As Reynolds waded through the sea of corpses, he raised a trembling hand for the cross around his neck. _Lord, have mercy on us._

Then he spotted her. A halo of hazel hair glowing in the crimson darkness. Reynolds tripped over limbs as he ran. _"Greta!" _He knelt down next to the girl.

Greta was still breathing. Faintly. Her small breast twitched as it moved up and down. But when Reynolds saw her up close, he saw the bullets that riddled her petite frame. She said only word.

"_Why?_"

Unable to answer her, Reynolds shook his head. He hugged her closer to him, shoulders shaking. Choking with grief, he didn't even hear the door creak open.

Someone entered the church.

* * *

_14:11:32_

The soldiers took no notice of Grimmjaw as they passed by him. He was disguised, anyway. Just a moment ago, he snuck up behind a Nazi, broke his neck, and snatched his helmet so he could cover his blue hair.

"_So are we done for today?" _one soldier asked.

"_Yep. There's a few that got away but we cleaned up most of them in that church," _the other chuckled. _"Ah, but we need to wait for Oberst Schiffer. He went back to finish some business." _He thumbed at the church.

Grimmjaw perked up when he caught one word from the German jabber. _Schiffer. _Where had he heard that word before...

_What's your name?_

_Ulquiorra Schiffer._

Grimmjaw's eyes widened. He saw the soldier pointing at the church. He put two and two together.

_Fuck._

* * *

_14:30:00_

"She is already dead."

Reynolds raised his swollen eyes. He glared at the dark figure standing in front of him. "Why?" he said in a raspy voice.

"We followed orders."

Reynolds staggered. A fury like no other seized him. "ORDERS? ORDERS?!" he screamed. "YOU KILLED CIVILIANS, INNOCENT PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE YOU WERE ORDERED TO?"

He burst out laughing, bitterly. "What? So if your general ordered you to kill yourself, WOULD YOU SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE HEAD?"

Even as he panted for breath, his shout echoed in the church, an undying scream of rage.

Ulquiorra didn't reply. He had an indifferent look, as if he was patiently waiting for a child's tantrum to pass.

That only enraged Reynolds more. He fumbled for his gun. "You're going to die here," he breathed. "And you're going to go to hell for this."

Ulquiorra's expression hardly changed. "...American," he said. "Who killed these people?"

"You!" Reynolds spat. "IT WAS YOU! YOU KILLED THE TOWNSPEOPLE ON SOME FUCKED-UP WHIM! DID YOU EVEN HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LOYAL THEY WERE? ALL THEY DID WAS PRAISE HITLER DAY AND NIGHT!"

"Their deaths were certainly not their fault," Ulquiorra acknowledged. "But we cannot be blamed either."

"BULLSHIT!" Reynolds shouted. "THEN WHO DO WE BLAME? GOD?"

"_You_."

Reynolds froze. "What?"

"Don't use 'God' as an excuse, American," Ulquiorra said. "The townspeople were slaughtered because they helped an enemy of the state. They were branded as traitors the moment they let you step inside."

"But—we were the ones who tricked them, they can't be penalized for that—"

"It was their foolish mistake. But you are right." Ulquiorra moved aside to show the pile of corpses to Reynolds. "It wasn't their fault. It was yours."

"No—"

"You killed them, American. You disregarded their lives by placing your safety above anything else. You used these people and would have tossed them aside if danger ever came your way."

"That's not true—"

"_We should escape when the German army finds out._" Ulquiorra's eyes never left Reynolds, who desperately tried to avoid the cutting gaze. "You've thought of this before. You would have ran and left the townspeople behind to face the consequences."

_No, please, no..._ Reynolds stared at the cross in his hand. _God, do not abandon me. Do not leave me like this._

Ulquiorra glanced at the cross dismissively. "Christians," he hissed, treating the word like a repulsive creature. "They rely on everything. They use everything as a scapegoat. They are the most irresponsible humans I have ever seen."

A flush filled Reynolds' face. He looked up angrily.

A mistake.

The hypnotic green eyes bore into him, closing him into a trap. "Do you think God exists?"

Reynolds couldn't say anything. His voice had left him.

"What kind of God would let this happen? What kind of God would kill the innocents? What kind of God is that, American?"

"God..." Reynolds croaked, "has his own plans for all of us."

"Then what plans did he have for these victims?" Ulquiorra knelt down beside Greta.

"DON'T TOUCH HER!"

Ulquiorra brushed the hazel curls out of the pallid face. "Is this all their life amounts to? To be killed for such trivial reasons." He stood up.

Reynolds' eyes remained on the white face. So white against the dirt and blood. A pure face.

_I killed her,_ he realized. He lowered his gun. _I killed them all._

_We should have known. Known that they would be seen as traitors for helping Americans. We _knew_ they were going to be punished._

He looked around. A shudder passed through him as he saw the faceless faces, twisted in grief and terror.

_We did all this._

"Reynolds." The way Ulquiorra said his name was like a final judgement. "_There is no God._"

Something inside him broke.

* * *

_14:44:41_

_It's nearly over. _Ulquiorra watched the American. All he needed to do now was wait.

Reynolds continued to stare at the dead bodies. His eyes scrunched up, as if willing them to come back to life. But silence was all that greeted him.

He let out a choked sob. It was a pitiful sound. It pierced through the air like the cry of a wounded animal. Trembling, he raised the gun once more. He pointed it at his own head. The cross was clasped in his other hand.

Ulquiorra continued to watch; no emotion betrayed in his green eyes.

There was a CRASH! Grimmjaw kicked through the church door. "Wha—"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" he bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! ANSWER ME, _REYNOLDS_!"

Reynolds looked at him with eyes of anguish, eyes that reflected a tormented soul. He whispered once.

"…_Forgive me_."

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

_Reflections..._

A reminder: the genre of this fanfic is angst/suspense. Focus on the word 'angst.'

On a positive note, I have officially graduated (hooray)! Freedom.

* * *

_...and Answers_

1. Hershey

_A._ Hershey was...well, Hershey. He was an OC on my part. So I was pretty surprised when a few readers professed their fondness for this character. You can guess what I was drinking when I created him.

2. Fanart

_A. _I'd love to see your fanart XD I'd draw one if I had a waccom tablet and an ounce of skill my friend the artist has.

3. Predictions

_A. _There are a lot of sharp readers out there. That's all I'll say for now.

Until next time.


	11. Shrapnel

_Before we begin..._

Here it is: Chapter 10. Double-digit. We've come a long way.

So here's also a freakin' big THANK YOU for all the support!

I promise to reply to every review to show my appreciation :)

Cheers.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Shrapnel**

Grimmjaw stared at the dead body. He swallowed in the stillness of breath, the finger wrapped rigidly around the trigger, the trickle of blood. A well of emotions flitted past his face.

Rage.

Fury.

Spite.

..._Grief_.

Ulquiorra moved forward. His boot stepped on the fallen cross, a crack appearing on its wooden surface. He kept his eyes on Grimmjaw, waiting for the man's reactions. What will he do next?

Grimmjaw bowed his head.

_Has he already given up?_ Ulquiorra wondered. _How disappointing._

Grimmjaw's shoulders began to shake. He shook with laughter.

Ulquiorra's eyes widened.

Grimmjaw tossed his head back, laughing. Laughing hard. Laughing till he doubled over. Until tears of mirth appeared in the corners of his eyes. His laughter rang in the church, a lone man laughing, surrounded by corpses. He looked like the devil.

Ulquiorra watched silently. _He snapped._

The laughter faded away, echoes in the silent church. Grimmjaw turned around, unable to hide the ecstatic smile. "You think I've gone mad, Ulquiorra?" he sneered. "Maybe." He paused, a strange look settling in his eyes.

He dismissed it and the mad glint returned. "But does it matter? 'Cuz I'm gonna kill you."

The final fight had started.

* * *

When the door opened, Fuchs raised his head. He sat silently on a chair, ready to accept anything coming his way.

"_Yo, Fuchs."_

Fuchs stared at the figure. _"Dietrich," _he acknowledged.

The silver-haired man leaned against the doorway, his legs crossed nonchalantly. His fox-like grin irked Fuchs once again.

"_I heard you were one naughty boy."_

Fuchs scowled. What was with the lack of respect? After all, he was still Dietrich's superior.

Dietrich seemed to have read his mind. _"Was I too rude, Oberstleutnant?" _he asked innocently. _"But what can I say? Imagine a soldier's feelings when he sees his superior committing an act of betrayal."_

Fuchs stared at him. His eyes widened as horror appeared on his face. _"You—you—" _he sputtered. _"You _told_ him?"_

Dietrich's smile didn't falter. _"What makes you think that? Fuchs."_

"_How could you?" _Fuchs whispered miserably. _"They were good people. They never deserved this..."_

Dietrich sighed, as one would when dealing with a stupidly kind kid. _"You're a good man," _he said. _"You are not fit for this. And now that the Oberst is 'gone,' it looks like I need to take over."_

Confused by what Dietrich was saying, Fuchs's jaw dropped when Dietrich revealed a small insignia on the inside of his collar. It was the symbol of a...

"_I am Generalleutnant Dietrich," _he said with a Grinch-like grin. _"My general sent me to your headquarters to check on your progress."_

Dumbfounded, Fuchs staggered back; he couldn't believe what he was hearing. The generalleutnant was one of the highest rank, just below a general. But why had Dietrich arrived under the title of Sturmbannfuhrer? Then it hit him.

_A spy. A spy within the army,_ Fuchs realized. Generals spying on each other wasn't a rare occurrence. _That explains the sudden transfer, the arrival of the new general... It was all his doing._

"_Stand up, Fuchs," _Dietrich ordered.

Fuchs stood up, without even realizing.

"_Come with me."_

"_Where are we going?" _Fuchs blurted out.

"_Back to headquarters. My job here is done."_

* * *

Laughter.

Grimmjaw swiped at him. He nearly grabbed him. Nearly.

"What's the matter, Grimmjaw?" Ulquiorra said. He landed beside the fallen corpse of the other American. "Is it him?"

Grimmjaw clenched his jaws in anger. Then that feral grin appeared once again. "Don't bother with mind games, Ulquiorra," he said. "You know I'm not brainy enough." He raised his M1-Carbine and began to shoot.

Ulquiorra noticed how the bullets avoided Reynolds' corpse. He still had one more hidden card left. Slipping his hand inside his pocket, he drew out a photograph and flicked it at Grimmjaw.

Grimmjaw snatched the photograph out of the air. It was of Jackman's wife and daughter. "Why do you have this?" He glared at Ulquiorra.

"He was the first to die," Ulquiorra said. "What were you doing at the moment of his death?"

"Why the hell is it your business?" Grimmjaw growled.

He took the bait.

"And what happened to the second one?" Ulquiorra said, his voice enticingly soft.

Grimmjaw stared at the unrevealing green eyes. _What the hell is he playing at?_

"There was a second gunshot," Ulquiorra pointed out. Grimmjaw looked away. A cue. "Did you finish him off?"

Grimmjaw gritted his teeth.

"And now this." Ulquiorra glanced at Reynolds' corpse, impassively. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Grimmjaw shouted.

"You failed, Grimmjaw."

"SHUT UP!"

Grimmjaw raised his gun.

_Like I suspected, _Ulquiorra thought. _In the end, he is no different from the others. It is time to end this—_

BANG!

Grimmjaw shot at the ceiling. Aiming at the dusty chandelier over Ulquiorra's head.

Ulquiorra was forced to move. The chandelier came crashing down, shattering into a million pieces. He barely made it. Once the billowing dust cleared out of the way, he found himself on the ground, staring at the broken chandelier. Somewhere buried underneath it was Reynolds' body.

"Do I fucking care?" Grimmjaw grinned. "It doesn't change the fact that we're in the middle of a fight. Fuck the mind games. We have something more fun in our hands."

Ulquiorra rose slowly. He needed to be serious now.

_How troublesome._

* * *

Life is a fucking bore.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

An unending cycle.

Until the day you become wormshit.

For Grimmjaw Jaegerjacques, the world was a fucked-up place. All one did was eat, sleep, shit, and fuck. If anyone ever tried to do anything fun, he'd get stared at, labeled as "abnormal," arrested, sentenced to death, and it was time to kick the fucking bucket.

Then the war began.

He remembered that day clearly. When the good ol' American boys were about to part, saying their goodbyes and giving away their hugs and kisses, as their mums and wives and girlfriends would bawl away.

'Course, Grimmjaw had no one to say good-bye to. His mum moved out when he was a snot-nosed brat. His old man was an alcoholic. Women? As if. His motto was "Fuck and run."

The pacifists demanded the war to end. Like it was some kind of menace to society. Retards. War was the best thing that ever happened to his life.

It was liberating.

For once, he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to. He was allowed to unleash everything inside him. He was allowed to kill. Kill and not suffer the consequences. Kill and not suffocate. Rip the skin off their skulls. Drown in their blood. Scoop out their heart, still fresh and beating, freed from its rib cage. It ended the boredom.

Though there was a bit of a problem.

After a refreshing kill, when human nature is stripped to its very core, naked for everyone to see, human nature is still human. The fucking _emotions _that came. Emotion was the worst enemy of mankind. It elicited hatred, lust, greed. And, of course, the personal favorite: _guilt_. After all sorts of cruelty man resorted to, after it was all over, there was that little fucker guilt worming into his heart. Grimmjaw had seen many a soldier crack on the battlefield. Grimmjaw knew there'd be many a soldier who'd crack when he returned home.

Grimmjaw may be a beast, but he was still human. Even for him, it was agony. It wasn't about sadness or even guilt or anything stupid like that. Just _knowing _those emotions existed ripped him apart.

Perhaps someday, he'd be free of those emotions.

Replaced by emptiness. A hole.

But free.

* * *

Fuchs sighed. After driving back at top speed, they had already reached headquarters.

Not much had changed. Except for the sliver of tension that hung in the air. Fuchs noticed how everyone seemed much more subdued, walking with their heads lowered; a far cry from the arrogance displayed by the officers just weeks ago.

_This new general must be one scary man,_ Fuchs thought.

Dietrich, no, _Generalleutnant_ Dietrich led him down an empty hallway, broad smile on his face. _"I want you to meet my general," _he said to Fuchs. _"You'll find it an interestin' meeting."_

Reluctantly, Fuchs followed him to a room at the far end of the hallway. Instead of knocking politely and stating name and rank, Dietrich barged in.

The room was dark. There was nothing inside except for a lone chair in the center. The previous general, now demoted, stood nervously next to the chair. In his hands was a tray carrying a teapot and a saucer. It rattled as his hands shook.

Dietrich waved, not the usual "Heil Hitler" salute, but a nonchalant wave. _"Brought you someone you'd want to speak to," _he said.

There was a clinking as a teacup was gently placed on the silver tray. The previous general scooted to the side, revealing the man sitting in the chair.

He wasn't dressed in the customary black uniform. Dressed in a counterpart white, the man had cinnamon-brown hair and eyes. He had a friendly countenance and a composed air about him.

Fuchs was startled when he saw the man remove his glasses. With long fingers, he slipped off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. The face hardly changed. There was still that disarming smile, the collected calm, but the eyes were different. Cold, calculative, cruel, anything could have described those eyes. It was a deceptively crafted mask.

When the man spoke, Fuch's heart seized in terror. A chill crawled through his skin as his body suddenly entered the fight-or-flight mode. His heart thumped noisily, sweat appeared at the sides of his temple, every organ inside clenched.

_My body's telling me to run,_ he realized. _Run away from this man._

"_Good afternoon, Oberstleutnant Fuchs,"_ the man said, his voice as smooth as silk. _"I am General Aizen."_

* * *

The church collapsed.

When they saw the walls begin to crumble, the soldiers rushed to the center of the town. There they saw a beast.

A flash of blue. The creature swept by the soldiers, too fast for the naked eye to see. He slashed through their throats before they could even react. Some panicked, shooting their guns without properly aiming. A few were caught in friendly fire.

"_Move out of the way."_

Ulquiorra had appeared. Then he too disappeared. A swirl of black and blue clashed.

In Ulquiorra's hand was a rapier, a merely decorative item for officers. But he wielded it like a practiced professional, swiping at the enemy. Metal clanged with metal.

In Grimmjaw's mouth was a snapped blade. It was the bayonet from a gun. He used it to block Ulquiorra's attacks. The way he swung his sword was haphazard, sloppy, but powerful. It could have sliced through an army truck.

"_Why don't they use guns?" _one soldier gaped. _"Why use _swords_?"_

"_Because it's close-combat," _another said. _"If one used a gun on the other, he'd get slashed before he could even react. You saw how that American finished our soldiers with a broken sword"_

Ulquiorra gained the upper hand. He cut through Grimmjaw's left arm, not deep enough to sever nerves, but enough to slow his movements.

Grimmjaw aimed a kick at Ulquiorra's abdomen. Ulquiorra was flung back, but he had moved to cushion the attack. "I'm gonna fuck up your face," Grimmjaw sneered. "The scars you left on mine make me look like some kinda cat."

"A housecat," Ulquiorra said. "How fitting."

Grimmjaw drew his gun and began to fire.

Ulquiorra moved too quickly. He lunged forward and knocking Grimmjaw to the ground, pointed his pistol at Grimmjaw's face. But before he could pull the trigger, Grimmjaw jabbed his finger into the gun.

"Shoot," Grimmjaw breathed. "I dare you to."

Ulquiorra's finger froze. _Not all brawn, is he? _he thought.

Grimmjaw swung his leg, kicking the gun out of Ulquiorra's hand. "You never answered my question before, Ulquiorra!" he yelled. "What do _you_ fear?" He swung his sword down.

Ulquiorra used only his hand to block the swing. "It's time to end this," he said. He slashed a hole in the engine of an army truck.

Gasoline leaked out. Grimmjaw glanced down. He was standing in a puddle of gasoline. _Fuck._

Ulquiorra leaped out of the way and fired twice at the truck. The truck blew up. The fire roared, greedily consuming everything in an instant. Soldiers yelled as they threw themselves down for cover.

Dust and smoke filled the air as the truck smoldered. Ulquiorra watched for any signs of Grimmjaw.

"One last question," a voice came from the smoke. "...Were you the one who shot Hershey?"

Ulquiorra paused. "Yes."

Something flew through the air. It landed among the large group of soldiers.

It was a lone grenade.

It exploded. Shrapnel, pieces of metal and scraps flew in all direction. They pierced through the soldiers, peppering everyone within a radius of ten meters.

Slivers of shrapnel flew towards Ulquiorra.

Ulquiorra parted his lips to say one word before it was too late.

"_Shit."_

* * *

The general ordered Fuchs to retrieve the army.

He returned to the town. Or what was left of it.

The bridge had collapsed. There were several bodies floating in the river, mowed down by bullets when they tried to escape. A great number of buildings had been razed to the ground. The church was nowhere to be seen, now a pile of rubble. Someone had set fire to the inn.

What shocked Fuchs the most was the number of dead soldiers. The inhabitants, of course, had all been massacred. He hadn't seen a single survivor escape the thorough killing. Except for one. He thought he spotted a mop of straw-colored hair weaving through the forest.

So when he saw the pile of dead soldiers, all he could do was stare with his mouth open. _"W-what happened?" _he croaked to a soldier.

"_The American," _was the bitter reply.

"_The American?" _Fuchs repeated in disbelief. _"Did you kill him?"_

"_No." _The bitterness intensified. _"We were ordered to capture one alive. Generalleutnant Dietrich picked him. But the monster reduced our number by half in the process."_

"_How?"_

"_He threw a grenade. The grenade killed everyone nearby. We caught him though. He couldn't escape because his legs were hit by the shrapnel."_

Fuchs watched the spectacle in silence. A team of soldiers dug for any survivors, carrying injured soldiers away. _"What," _he said, _"happened to Oberst Schiffer?"_

The solider didn't reply.

* * *

_Reflections..._

Like several reviewers guessed, Aizen makes his appearance as the new general.

I couldn't resist using him as the big, bad guy who plots from the shadows. According to the most recent Bleach chapters, he's been plotting for at least a century (damn patient of him).

And that's the end of the 'town' arc. We'll be entering the 'headquarters' arc in Chapter 11.

So...what'd you think of this chapter?


	12. Grind

**Chapter Eleven**

**Grind**

Headquarters was in a state of anxiety.

The war was doing poorly, especially with the losses at sea. Dark murmurs predicting the Allied invasion floated in the air. Meetings were held more frequently and officers hurried from one place to another. Everyday, more prisoners of war were brought directly into headquarters for interrogation. Few left the place intact.

Deep in the basement, there was a prison that held the POWs needed for interrogation. It was a horrible place, perhaps even worse than the concentration camps. It was a place solely devoted to torture, where even death was a preferred option.

A group of soldiers who were in charge of guarding the prison exchanged conversation over a cup of coffee.

"_How are they?" _one soldier said between sips. _"Easy to break?"_

"_Most," _his companion replied. _"But some are impossible. Stubborn bastards."_

"_Speaking of which," _another said, _"they're bringing in another one this week. Right now he's at a collection point camp."_

"_What do we need him for? All they do is stink up this place."_

The third soldier laughed shortly. _"Haven't you heard? He's the one who was captured a few days ago."_

The eyes of the two remaining soldiers widened. _"You mean…from _that _town?" _the first one whispered hoarsely. _"The one who…"_

"_Yes. The one who ruined Oberst Schiffer."_

* * *

As usual, it was teatime for General Aizen.

Fuchs glanced nervously up at the general, who lifted the cup to his nose, reveling in the soothing scent with a small smile. Despite the panic state of the entire nation, General Aizen remained the same, calm and untouched. He seemed hardly worried about the inevitable end that was approaching.

"_Tea, Oberstleutnant?" _Aizen offered. _"It is Earl Gray, a favorite of the British."_

"_No thank you, sir," _Fuchs said.

Aizen didn't bother offering some to Dietrich, who was in the corner, observing a bunch of television screens recording the every movement of every corner in the building.

The only ones allowed to enter General Aizen's room were Dietrich and Fuchs. Fuchs didn't understand why he was included, him, a lowly oberstleutnant. He figured it had something to do with _that _incident.

"_How is Oberst Schiffer?" _Dietrich piped up, bringing up a delicate subject without much care.

Fuchs froze. _"I...have yet to visit him."_

Dietrich snickered. _"Then why don't we all visit him tomorrow? I wanna see how he's doin'."_

Fuchs murmured a reluctant _"Yes, sir." _

"_Oh, and today's the day," _Dietrich said, as if he just remembered.

"_What day, sir?" _Fuchs asked.

"_The day the interesting little American is coming to headquarters."_

_"You wish to see him?" _Aizen said.

"_Of course."_

* * *

Grimmjaw was a man of many identities.

First, the "problem child," the troublemaker of society. Then, the "crazy soldier," the violent monster. And finally, the "American piece of shit." Exactly what it meant: a piece of shit.

"_Get up!"_

Someone kicked him in the ribs. He made no sound, not even a groan. He groggily opened his eyes. His hands were chained behind his back, yet they continued to pump drugs into him. It was because of last time, when he snapped the chains like a toy.

"...the fuck...do...want?" he slurred, tongue tied by the chemicals in his veins.

When he lifted his eyelids, he couldn't see. There was a blindfold over his eyes.

But when he closed his eyes, he could see everything. Everything imprinted in his mind.

The first day he arrived to camp was hell. He didn't see any Boy Scouts.

Instead, he caught a glimpse of the POWs rotting in their cells. It was a place infested with despair, where men with empty eyes gazed back. It smelled like shit too, since they pissed and crapped and there was no one to clean it up. The cells stunk of blood from the open wounds, pus from the infection, sweat from the crowdedness, and decay from the dead. The ones who were still clinging to life like roaches were skeletons. Ribs were outlined through paper-thin skin and their cheeks were hollowed.

There was little interaction between the prisoners. A few kooks muttered to themselves, looking into space. Others simply sat still, as spittle trickled from their toothless mouths. Only one dirty old man ever spoke to Grimmjaw. His words weren't particularly comforting.

The old man was wrapped in a worn gray blanket. When he pointed an index finger at him, Grimmjaw almost jumped out of his skin. He thought it was a skeleton moving.

There was a cackle from the bag of bones. "Ye've seen death."

Duh, is what Grimmjaw would've said.

The old man leered with a toothy grin. "Death! So much death!" he sniggered. "There's a fella sticking to ye like a leech!"

Grimmjaw stared at him. "What...did you say?" he said slowly.

"Was he a comrade? Or an enemy?" the old man wondered aloud. "He's got a sad face." He paused. "It's gonna happen soon." The pale eyes shined with a strange gleam, lighting up the face like a jack-o-lantern.

The old man lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Soon, soon a _hole_ will form."

Before Grimmjaw could demand what he meant, the old man retreated to a dark corner in his own cell, laughing nervously to himself.

And in a few days, Grimmjaw was moved to another place.

That's when he learned the true meaning of hell.

* * *

Grimmjaw knew what to expect.

A couple of Nazis would come. Yap incomprehensible noises at him. Stomp on him when he spat on their shiny shoes. And when the occasional creative creep was there, they tried other methods.

Beatings, starvation, sleep deprivation, the usual crap.

What he couldn't stand was the restraint.

He was stuck in a tiny-ass cell. In there, he lost sense of time because he could never tell when it was day or night. It was always dark. A tiny, dark cage. Perfect for a wild animal like Grimmjaw.

He kicked the wall. That was stupid of him. His legs were in no condition to move. They were the reason he first got captured. The grenade did the job, killing the Nazis, but he got hit as well. And since the Nazis don't bother treating the POWs, he had to dig the shrapnel out of his flesh with his teeth, unless he wanted to see his legs rot and fall off.

"Tsk-tsk," a voice said. "Still ill-tempered, aren't you?"

Usually, Grimmjaw ignored them. This time, he looked up, even though he knew he couldn't see. He recognized that voice.

Light. Blinding light. Someone ripped the blindfold off and aimed a flashlight straight at his face. It was like shoving a handful of needles into his eyes. Grimmjaw blinked several times. His blue eyes focused gradually, latching onto the face in front of him.

It was him. That silver-haired Nazi, grinning like a child ready to rip open a Christmas present.

_I'm so screwed,_ he thought.

When Dietrich took over the interrogations, they stopped feeding him drugs. After all, they didn't want to dull his pain receptors. So to prevent him from breaking the chains and wringing the fox-face's scrawny neck, they attached a collar around his neck and linked a chain to the shackles around his wrists. If he moved his arms too much, he could end up strangling himself.

Eventually, he got used to the beatings. The first few times, he never thought he'd be able to endure it—being some little shit's sandbag. But humans adapt. The only thing he never got used to was the water torture.

Grimmjaw hated getting wet.

Even though he was getting dunked into a tub, it was a burning sensation. Like his lungs were on fire. After holding his head in for a couple of minutes, give or take a few, they'd drag him out by the hair. Fling him to the floor where he lay sputtering and coughing. Then they'd dunk him in again. Sadistic bastards.

It was routine now. At the beginning of each "session," Dietrich would ask, almost politely, "Ready for your bath, kitty?"

When the water torture didn't work, that was the start of Dietrich's "games." He acted like a brat. Like a child gleefully frying an ant with a magnifying glass. Like a child cruelly plucking the wings off a fly and watching it squirm.

"Just spill it," he said in a coaxing voice.

Spill what? Frankly, it wasn't about Grimmjaw's pride. Sure, he clung onto it, but it wasn't like he had a choice. He didn't _know_ shit. The Nazis were too thick-skulled to realize that.

_But this guy knows, _he thought. _He's just doing this cuz it's amusing._

Dietrich pouted when Grimmjaw didn't reply. "No fun," he complained.

So he tried a new method. Enough with the beatings and dunking. Humiliation might break him.

* * *

"Let's play a game," Dietrich said one day.

"I'll play it if the reward is getting to kill you," Grimmjaw said.

Dietrich smiled widely. He loved seeing the fighting spirit still left in Grimmjaw. It made it so much more worth it when he got to see him break. He gave a silvery laugh. "Come now," he said. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your friend."

It annoyed Grimmjaw to no end that even Dietrich could see the "friend" stuck to him. This proved the old man hadn't been out of his mind. It creeped him out that there was some shitty ghost lurking on his shoulder when he was being fucking tortured.

"Then tell him to fuck off," Grimmjaw snarled.

Dietrich lifted a red-hot poker. "Bad kitty. You refuse to understand your position. Maybe a little skin-printing will serve as a reminder."

Grimmjaw clenched his jaws. He already invented a rule to prevent himself from going mad.

Pain.

Grind.

Pain.

Grind.

It also prevented him from screaming.

* * *

_"You're taking long,"_ Aizen said.

Dietrich stuck his tongue out. _"The kitty isn't all fluff and fur,"_ he said. _"I've never seen someone last this long."_

Aizen lifted his teaspoon. He stirred thoughtfully. _"Next time I will go see him."_

Dietrich frowned. _"But I'm not done."_

_"That doesn't matter,"_ Aizen said gently. _"Silber."_

Dietrich shivered.

_"You had your fun. It is my turn."_

_"Poo,"_ Dietrich said. _"Oh well. I'll go visit Oberst Schiffer then. He must miss me."_

* * *

The headquarters hospital was at its busiest time of the year.

Equipped with the best staff, the hospital received all sorts of priority patients—officers, mostly.

Fuchs nervously weaved through the hallway, avoiding the bustling nurses and speeding emergency tables. He wrung his hands in front of him. Briefly, he wondered if he should have gotten flowers. He quickly discarded the thought. Oberst Schiffer was not the flower type.

Speaking of flowers, Fuchs raised his head when he caught a faint scent.

"_Nurse Naherin!"_

A beautiful woman turned her head at the end of the hallway. She was a delightful creature. Strawberry-blonde hair, bordering a soft orange, flowed past her waist and framed a pretty face. In contrast to her dainty frame, she was blessed with a plentiful bosom that attracted the eyes of any male from any distance. The fragrance of flowers lingered over her; perhaps it was the tiny daisies woven into her hair.

Fuchs momentarily lost his train of thought, simply gaping at the nurse. Her smile was enchanting as she lifted the corners of her mouth to form a perfect arc.

"_Eh, excuse me!" _she piped up as she skipped around Fuchs.

"_The patient at room 8 is asking for his 'Princess,'" _a nurse with her hair clipped into a bun said briskly, adjusting her glasses. She held her clipboard firmly against her chest.

"_Nana, don't call me that!" _Naherin said reproachfully.

"_Everyone calls you that," _the nurse replied. _"Now go deal with that drunken fool. I have to go see the patient at room 4."_

Naherin's eyes widened. She lowered her voice. _"Is he…that patient?"_

The nurse sighed, removing her glasses to clean them. _"He is difficult. He hasn't spoken a word since the day he first came. He won't let anyone touch him either so I can't change his bandages. At this rate, he's going to die from blood loss."_

Naherin glanced down the hallway. Room 4 was located at a faraway corner, isolated from the rest of the rooms.

It was a lonely room.

* * *

The door creaked open, light shedding in the dark cell.

"_Leave us."_

Soldiers guarding at the doorway raised their arms in a perfect salute. They stepped outside.

Grimmjaw lay on the ground, not moving. He ached. Cuts, bruises, split-open wounds were scattered across his body. His legs were swollen, bordering infection from the neglect of previous wounds. He doubted he could run now even if they unchained him. His wrists were chaffed from the shackles. The collar cut into his neck like wire whenever he tried to swing a punch against his tormentors. And his jaws ached. From the grinding.

Worst was what Dietrich did with the iron poker.

On the right side of Grimmjaw's lower back was an angry brand. A crude 6 was burned black. When Dietrich first pressed the glowing iron against his skin, Grimmjaw almost broke his resolution and screamed. It took everything he had in him to keep his jaws glued shut and stop the wordless scream that rose from his lungs. A sheen of sweat covered his face. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his tied hands into fists, nails cutting into the flesh of his palm.

Dietrich dug his heel into the livid red 6, looking disappointed with Grimmjaw's reaction (or lack of). He elicited a grunt, nothing more. Dietrich planned on adding two more 6's. "The devil's number, you know?" he grinned. But after stamping the first 6, he hadn't appeared since.

So when someone stepped into the cell, Grimmjaw expected it to be Dietrich, itching to print the second 6. He turned his head slightly only when he heard a different mild voice.

"I am Aizen."

Grimmjaw was a beast. And like a beast, he reacted on his instincts. His instincts were telling him one thing: _This man is dangerous._

"What is your name?" Aizen asked.

It took a moment for Grimmjaw to realize Aizen wasn't speaking with him. He spoke to the space behind Grimmjaw.

_This is shit-fucking wonderful. Even this bastard can see that 'ghost,' _Grimmjaw thought, bitterly.

"Now, what is _your _name?" Aizen said pleasantly, turning to Grimmjaw.

"Why? You want to carve it on my grave?" And still, he couldn't contain his pride.

Aizen smiled, brutally. "Enemy soldiers aren't given the luxury of graves," he said. "We'll simply throw your body to the dogs."

"Oh good. I like dogs."

Aizen's smile went up a notch, tinged with amusement, fascination. "You still have a smart mouth," he said. "Quite a feat after what you've gone through."

"So do I get a reward?" Grimmjaw managed a smirk, a cocky one at that.

Aizen knelt down. Hooking a finger, he yanked at Grimmjaw's collar to force his face up. "What sort of…reward would you like?" he murmured into Grimmjaw's ear.

Grimmjaw felt a strange shudder travel across his spine. He decided he hated that feeling. And he decided he hated this bastard. He bared his teeth. Lightning-quick, he sunk his canines into Aizen's wrist, feeling the teeth puncture the skin. He spat out the blood and licked his lips. Bittersweet.

Aizen pulled back, not too quickly. He peered at his bleeding wrist, unperturbed. A slow smile appeared on his face. _"It will be fun breaking you," _he said. He stood up and snapped his fingers. A soldier entered the room at the sound. _"Break his arm,"_ he ordered.

Grimmjaw got the gist when the man stood over his left arm with a crowbar.

Grind.

* * *

_Reflections..._

Sadistic little chapter.

Torture's always a pain to write about, so it probably came out all weird :(

Naherin is a German surname, which means 'seamstress' (hint-hint).

The next chapter will be the opposite of this chapter. Mostly about Ulquiorra.

Can anyone guess what happened to him?

* * *

_...and Fanart_

For those who **have **drawn something, share the talent!

I remember a few who mentioned that they have but I've never gotten the chance to see one D:

Please leave a link or something :D

And for the reader who left a request about the character's uniforms, the links are on my profile.

I couldn't send it over because your review was anonymous :P

Finally, I have a treat myself. Check my profile, where I set up a link to an incredible fanart

That's how I imagined Grimmjaw would look in this chapter.


	13. Trash

_Dedicated to **KaruKyan** and **KawaiiKaia**, the winners of last chapter's guessing game_

_Special dedication to **Cucumber-chan** for noticing two ultra-hidden Bleach characters_

**Chapter Twelve**

**Trash**

"_Princess!"_

"_Princess, come visit my room!"_

"_Princess, we need help with the patient in room 2!"_

"_Popular as ever, aren't you?" _the bespectacled nurse said dryly.

Nurse Naherin turned pink. _"So are you, Nana. I know the patient from room 8 actually has a soft spot for you," _she teased.

A little color appeared on the other nurse's cheeks. She cleared her throat. _"You should be worrying about your next patient. My duties with the patient from room 4 have been handed over to you." _Her eyes clouded. _"I hope...you can heal him."_

Naherin nodded slowly. She glanced over her shoulders, thoughtful gray eyes skimming across the hallway to the very end. Room 4.

"_I hope so too."_

* * *

Darkness.

This was infinite darkness.

A darkness to drown in.

A darkness to despair in.

Ulquiorra was wrapped in darkness.

It was a black room. A room without a door, without a window, without light. Ulquiorra sat in this black room, sat in a black bed, held a black book. Only sound pierced this room.

Footsteps, light, bouncy, new footsteps echoed across the hallway. Ulquiorra paid no heed. He ignored the person, even when she carefully opened the door to his room. He ignored her existence, even when she approached him and stood by his side.

"_Oberst...Schiffer?" _A hesitant, but melodic voice. Quite different from the usual brisk, stern voice he was used to hearing. But still, he ignored her.

"_Eh, I am Nurse Naherin and I will be the one helping you from now on," _she continued, despite the awkward silence. _"If you have any problems or discomfort, please, feel free to tell me! I'm willing to help you with anything so—" _She continued to blabber on.

This woman reeked. She reeked of flowers, an odor he detested. Flowers meant sticky love that enslaved two people into an unwanted bond that gradually corroded from the inside. Flowers meant faked congratulations that veiled the envy deeply rooted in human nature. Flowers meant death. A farewell.

She reached a hand towards him. He raised his black book with a snap of the wrist. Slapped away her hand.

Naherin clasped her hand, stinging from the sharp action. _"Please," _she said softly. _"Please let me change your bandages."_

Brows arched with sadness, she stared at his pale face. It was a face without emotions. The cheeks were sallow, not a tinge of pigment in the skin. The lips were inexpressive, a straight line. The eyes...she couldn't see.

They were wrapped in bandages.

* * *

Everyday, Naherin would enter his room. Everyday, she'd ask the same thing. Everyday, he ignored her.

But the woman was insufferable. She was as stubborn as a mule and each time Ulquiorra rejected her kindness, she'd return, more determined than before.

Unfortunately, she wasn't his only visitor.

He didn't have many. Most of the officers tried to avoid him, now that he had fallen in disgrace. Dietrich was the first. He simply skipped into the room one day and peered down at Ulquiorra.

"_Hiya, Oberst," _he said. He grew more informal by the day. _"How you doing?"_

Ulquiorra remained silent. He flipped a page in the black book.

"_Frankly, I was surprised you ended up like this," _he continued. _"That American really is something, isn't he?"_

Grimmjaw. Ulquiorra hadn't forgotten about him. Right now, he was probably locked in a cell, being tortured to an inch of his life. Was this sympathy he was feeling for the enemy? After all, he didn't blame Grimmjaw for his state. He wasn't petty.

The third visit, Dietrich brought someone else with him. It was the previous general, demoted because of the mistake he made with his foolish orders.

While he greeted Ulquiorra in the black room, he put on that false voice, that false sympathy, as he handed him flowers. A false gesture. He hoped Oberst Schiffer would get better. He thought it might even be possible to restore his sight. He was going to ask a colleague about this acclaimed surgeon who might be able to fix his eyes.

As soon as they left the room, the two entered a conversation.

Deprived of his sight, Ulquiorra's other senses had sharpened. Though the walls were supposed to be soundproof, he could hear the voices trickling in.

"_How's the American bastard?" _the previous general asked.

"_A tough nut to crack," _Dietrich smiled. _"General Aizen is now visiting him."_

"_I'll tell you who's cracked," _the previous general said. _"It's over with Schiffer. What's the use of him without his sight?"_

"_What will we do with Oberst Schiffer now?" _said Dietrich amiably.

The previous general scowled. _"Do? There's nothing to be done with Schiffer. Let him rot here."_

"_How harsh."_

The previous general snorted. _"Just a month ago, the man was ready for another promotion. You want to know what he is now?"_

No reply from Dietrich.

"_Trash."_

* * *

Someone entered the black room.

Ulquiorra didn't even shift. He sat in the bed, the black book open in his hands.

"_Oberst," _a voice whispered.

If he weren't so still, Ulquiorra would have writhed in distaste. He knew what this was. This visitor was looking down at him with _pity_.

"_Oberst," _the voice repeated.

Fuchs's face twisted as he stared at the state Ulquiorra was in. After finally having gathered the courage to actually meet the Oberst, Fuchs was shocked with what he saw. This was not the Oberst Schiffer he knew. The cold, precise man who commanded an army with the nod of his head. This couldn't be him.

There was a small click. Ulquiorra recognized it, a music so familiar to his ears. It was the cocking of a pistol.

Fuchs raised the pistol, arm slightly trembling. _"I could end this here, Oberst," _he said hoarsely. _"I should hate you. You destroyed an entire town. You killed innocents."_

He took a deep breath. _"Look at you now. That grenade explosion cost you your eyes. Is this what you wanted? After all that bloodshed to rise to the top, is this how you wished to end up as? An invalid."_

Trash.

He pressed his finger against the trigger. _"I may have hated you, but I never wished to see you like this. I should kill you. At the very least, it would leave your honor intact."_

He paused. _"What do you want, Oberst?"_

Ulquiorra didn't raise his head. He turned another page of the black book.

Fuchs gritted his teeth. Then, his jaw relaxed and he began to laugh quietly. Clasping his hand over his eyes, he lowered his gun and laughed out loud. _"Maybe you haven't changed. You still see me as trash."_

He laid the gun on a small table next to the bed. He turned to leave but glanced back when he reached the door.

"_Oberst," _he said._ "Why do you carry the Bible in your hands?"_

Amusement.

* * *

Naherin peered into the room. She tiptoed to the table next to the patient's bed. Pursing her lips, she spotted the flowers in the vase. A visitor brought them just a few days ago, yet they were already wilted and dying.

She sneaked a peek at the Oberst. He was in his usual position. Sitting upright on his bed, the Bible in his hands, his unseeing eyes glancing down. The bandages needed to be removed today. Leaving the same bandages on for too long could risk infection.

"_I-I—" _She took a deep breath. _"Let me change your bandages, Oberst," _Nurse Naherin said, resolution in her steadfast gray eyes. She moved her hand to his face. Again, he slapped her hand away with the book.

"_Don't touch me."_

Naherin withdrew in shock. This was the first time he had spoken. She had expected his voice to be hoarse from lack of use, but it turned out to be the opposite. He had a liquid voice—smooth, calm. A wide smile spread across her face. Yet another rejection, but he had finally spoken to her.

"_Oberst, I—" _she started happily.

"_You do not want to touch me," _he interrupted, placing his book on his lap.

Naherin swallowed, still unable to wipe the smile from her face. _"But why?"_

Irritated by her persistent questions, he suddenly grabbed her hand. She let out a small cry, not from the crushing grip, but from the startling cold touch of his skin.

"_Now do you understand?" _He released her hand. _"Most are repulsed by my touch. They say it is like touching a dead body."_

There was no reply from Naherin. Ulquiorra felt her gaze on him. He breathed out. _What a pain. "Don't waste your pity on me. I don't need—"_

He was interrupted. This time it was Naherin who abruptly grabbed his hand. She clasped both hands over his white fingers. They were warm hands.

"_Let go."_

"_No," _Naherin murmured.

"_Let go, woman."_

"_No, Oberst! Please...let me..."_

"_I said I don't—"_

"_It's not pity!" _Naherin insisted. _"Do you feel my hands? You see, I have a really high body temperature. So-so for a person like me, your hands are like a breath of fresh air. They chase away the suffocating heat." _She pressed her hands closer together. _"Your hands are wonderful."_

She refused to let go.

* * *

It was a miscalculation.

Speaking to the woman was Ulquiorra's biggest miscalculation.

Ever since the day he first spoke to her, the woman bounced with energy. He could practically feel that stupid smile, that stupid cheer. Stupidity was known to be contagious.

"_I brought your meal, Oberst!" _Naherin called out, entering the room noisily. She carried a tray in front of her, laden with homemade food.

He had been refusing his meals everyday. When Naherin plucked up the courage to ask him why, he replied, _"Because they smell of plastic."_

He wondered if she'd try to force-feed him. That would've been the option for him if he was in her shoes. But the woman was not like him. She was far more willing to sacrifice for another's comfort. "_Then I'll cook your food for you!" _Naherin said stoutly.

Ulquiorra was skeptical. He was right to be skeptical. The first time Nurse Naherin "cooked" for him, she brought fish stuffed with sweet potatoes slathered in red pepper sauce. The heat from her sparkling gaze of anticipation was what forced him to swallow that ridiculous concoction.

He spent the night emptying his stomach in the toilet (aka vomiting).

Ulquiorra ate as slowly as he could, waiting for the woman to get sick of waiting and leave. Then he could flush his meal down the toilet. Instead, she knelt down next to his bed, elbows propped up as she waited patiently with shining eyes. Ulquiorra was a patient man. He would accept this challenge.

Stalling deliberately, he dropped his spoon. He leaned over to pick it up, approximating its location by the sound.

"_Oh! I'll get that for you." _Nurse Naherin dived at the spoon. Her head collided into his head with a hard _crack!_

Ulquiorra had never felt such excruciating pain. It took every bit of self-control he had to refrain from clutching his head and screaming swears.

_What is this woman's head made out of?_

"_I'm sorry, Oberst!" _she cried. She leaped up and hurried out of the room. _"I'll go get treatment, so just wait here!"_

As if he had anywhere else to go.

As soon as the door closed shut, Ulquiorra traced his steps to the bathroom, tray in hand. He dumped the contents down the toilet bowl.

Flush. And good-bye to the woman's hideous cooking skills.

The woman returned with a first-aid kit.

Despite her idiocy, she was a talented nurse. Ulquiorra had heard about her even before she took charge of him. She was famous in the hospital and many patients fervently believed she had magical healing powers.

Naherin rubbed a salve on the bump on his head. Already, it felt less swollen. He estimated it would be gone by the next hour. Perhaps this woman really did have some sort of ability.

Naherin's fingers grazed against the bandages that covered Ulquiorra's eyes.

"_Nana, do-do you know how the Oberst's eyes looked like?" _she had once asked the other nurse.

The nurse turned in surprise. _"Why do you wish to know that?"_

Naherin blushed.

The nurse's eyes narrowed. _"Naherin," _she said in a warning voice. _"Do not get involved with your patients."_

"_It has nothing to do with that!" _Naherin said defensively._ "I am just...curious."_

The nurse sighed. _"Oberst Schiffer's eyes? Well, I saw them only once, when he came to visit one of his snipers." _She paused. _"He had green eyes."_

Green eyes. Naherin imagined them to be a pretty color. Today, perhaps, she could see them.

"_Oberst," _she said tentatively. _"Could I change your bandages?"_

Ulquiorra took only a moment before he replied. _"If you wish."_

Happiness welled inside her. With nimble fingers, she eagerly unwound the binding over his eyes. A second later, the bandages fell away. She wrenched her hands back, clasping them over her mouth to smother a gasp.

Ulquiorra caught the smallest of sounds. _"...Are you satisfied?"_

Naherin's lips quivered. Ulquiorra's eyes were closed shut, held down by deep scars that were carved into the eyelids. Permanent scars whiter than his white skin. Regardless of her medical background, Naherin knew nothing could be done.

"_I am a soldier, woman," _Ulquiorra said. _"Without my sight, I am nothing. Nothing but trash."_

Slowly, Naherin began to wrap fresh bandages around Ulquiorra's eyes. Her hands trembled as she looped once, twice. When she finished, she lowered her head and her shoulders began to shake. Something warm dotted his lap. It fell like rain.

"_If...If only I could heal your eyes, Oberst Schiffer."_

She cried softly.

Her hair brushed against his face. He smelled flowers. _"If only I had that power."_

If only, if only...

* * *

_Reflections..._

An official apology to anyone what hates this pairing. But my friend would've slit my throat if I didn't add this chapter D:

Either way, it was my first attempt at slight romance(?).

Horrendous, isn't it?

* * *

_...and Fanart_

**Thank you** to everyone who showed their fanarts! We have a lot of _incredible_ artists out there!

My friend the awesome artist updated her deviantart again. Check it out on my profile!


	14. Scream

_Before we begin..._

Apologies for the (very) late update. The writer's block dragged on much longer than I expected. In return, I'm presenting you the longest chapter yet.

Also, a quickie warning. Rating for this chapter will be **M**. So those under 18, shoo (says the author who watched _Kill Bill _when thirteen).

Enjoy :)

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Scream**

Naherin remained in a glum stupor for the next few days. Her gray eyes didn't sparkle like they used to and her hair hung limp. Everyone wondered what could have possibly happened to their cheerful "Princess."

"_What's the matter?" _the bespectacled nurse asked.

"_I," _Naherin searched for her tongue, _"I finally changed Oberst Schiffer's bandages."_ She closed her eyes. _"I was hoping to see his green eyes..."_

The other nurse shook her head sadly. _"You should've known better," _she said in a rather chiding tone. _"You read his report. You knew he was blind."_

"_I did," _Naherin croaked. _"I..."_

The nurse frowned. She tucked her clipboard under her armpit and curling her fingers into a fist, knocked Naherin on the head. _"Wake up!" _she snapped. _"What's the point of you getting depressed over your patient? How do you think your patient will feel? If you let your emotions get in the way, you aren't fit to be a hospital personnel."_

Naherin stared at her, momentarily dazed. _"I'm sorry." _She lowered her head and mumbled, _"Thank you, Nana."_

The nurse smiled. _"Anytime," _she said. She shook her hand, revealing bruised knuckles. _"My god, your head is hard."_

Naherin grinned sheepishly.

* * *

Back when Reynolds was alive, Grimmjaw once told him to suck it up and take the pain. That pain was good for him, that it reminds him of being alive.

_I take that back,_ Grimmjaw thought. _Pain's a fucker._

The door to his cell creaked open.

His ears twitched when he heard the barking order of a guard, a nervous squeak, then a hurried shuffling of feet. This wasn't the fox-face or the greasy bastard. Based on what he heard from the footsteps, this new visitor was short and skinny; a petite frame on the whole.

"Er, excuse me. I'm here to...see your wounds."

Even the voice was high-pitched and timid. But what caused Grimmjaw to turn and face the visitor, chains rattling as he did, was the fluent English he heard.

"You're not a Nazi," Grimmjaw said.

It was a boy who looked just out of his teens. He was a seedy-looking kid, as if he had grown in a cupboard, never once exposed to the sunlight. His droopy eyes, his small nose and mouth, and the way he jumped at the smallest sounds, made him seem like a mouse. A mouse Grimmjaw would've squashed at any other time.

Now wasn't the right time.

The boy sheepishly lowered his head. "I'm not even a soldier," he said. "I'm a medic."

"A doc?"

"Uh, no." The boy cleared his throat. "Technically, a nurse."

Grimmjaw sat up gingerly, but looked properly at the boy with a strange expression. "You're a nurse?"

The boy turned red. He opened his mouth to stutter when Grimmjaw interrupted, "Shit, how old are you? Do you even have hair down there?"

The boy's jaw dropped open. "You're not…making fun of me for being a male nurse?" he asked tentatively.

Grimmjaw snorted. "Nurse, quack, they're all the same. You think I'm in the right state to be a tight-ass here?" His eyes narrowed. "But if you were a Nazi, that'd be different. I'd have chewed your hand off the wrist bone if you even tried to touch me."

The boy widened his eyes frightfully.

"Stop being a wuss. And you didn't tell me your age yet."

"Twenty-seven."

"The fuck?! I thought you were thirteen!"

"My growth spurt was a bit too early," the boy mumbled, his voice getting smaller by the second.

"Or you never had one," Grimmjaw said under his breath. "Anyway, the Nazis sent you to look at their artwork?" He squared his shoulders and flaunted the rainbow of injuries spread across his body.

The boy blanched. Whatever he'd been expecting, this outstripped anything he had in mind. It was a miracle this rough-looking man hadn't keeled over and died already. Without wasting further time, he quickly opened the medical pack on his back and began disinfecting the more serious gashes.

While the boy worked hard to treat him, Grimmjaw grew bored. He blew his hair out of his face, he fidgeted, he turned this way and that, he rattled his chains, anything to drive his nurse up the wall.

"Please remain still," the boy said, wiping sweat off his brow. "I need to attach a tourniquet to your arm. If we leave it the way it is now, you'll have to amputate it."

Despite acting nonchalant when he showed off his injuries, Grimmjaw winced as gauze was applied on his brand. He shot a resentful glare in the boy's direction, as if it was he who had taken a glowing iron and shoved it against his skin.

Life was a bitch. It was the all-time low point in Grimmjaw's twenty-one years on Earth, when he felt downright shitty. Shitty wieners not worth his time were spitting and stomping on him black and blue. Shitty fox-faces were poking branding irons into his bare skin with delighted giggles. And shitty bastards were visiting him afterwards, with that smug face only an arrogant, greasy bastard could pull off.

This was the shittiest it could get.

He scratched that comment when there was a weird sound. The boy-nurse looked up with alarmed eyes. The alarm melded into a strange look as he stared at Grimmjaw.

"What," Grimmjaw muttered. He avoided the boy's perplexed eyes.

There it was again. A smudge of red painted across Grimmjaw's face as his stomach—his fucking traitor of a stomach—growled in hunger. And damn, even the _growling _hurt. It was a slow ache that clenched his abdominal muscles as his body groaned for food, nutrients, anything.

Sure, he's had it rough even before the war. But Grimmjaw was a man who indulged in pleasure. Food was one of life's pleasures. He rarely missed a day without it.

He gritted his teeth, making an irritated "tch!" as he looked the other way. The piteous groans of his belly made him sound pretty fucking pathetic.

"Erm," the boy dared to speak. He paused in his ministrations, nervously trying to catch the disgruntled soldier's eyes. "I can…get you…something to e-eat…"

Grimmjaw sat up instantly, probably reopening most of his wounds in the process. "You're not fucking with me?" he demanded. "'Cause that's what they all do. Mocking and taunting and fucking around." He narrowed dangerous eyes. "You wouldn't do that now, would you?"

"No!" the boy blurted out. "I'll-I'll try to sneak something next time."

"If there is a next time," Grimmjaw grumbled. "It's not like they sent you to heal me cuz they got a sudden change of heart."

The boy didn't know what to say. He glanced down at his lap, where both his hands were in tight fists, wondering if there truly was going to be a next time. The chances were slim. From what the wounds had shown him, it was more likely this man was going to die during the next few days of torture. It all depended on General Aizen. On a whim, he had sent the boy in the first place. _"Fix the toy before it breaks,"_ was all he had said to a confused, somewhat terrified male-nurse.

Now he understood the meaning behind those words. _He wants to break his toy all over again,_ the boy thought dully.

Rather miserably, the boy returned to bandaging the soldier's brand. And yet, he secretly envied the man to some degree. This man had been punched, kicked, starved, and tortured in unimaginable ways. He'd been reduced to a subhuman level, exposed to the degradation of being branded like some kind of cattle. And yet, he still had the gall to be smart-mouthed and cocky like this. Swaggering like he owned this puny, peanut-sized prison cell.

"…How do you do it…?" the boy said softly.

The grave look behind Grimmjaw's blue eyes swirled with untapped emotions and veiled pain.

"I grind," he said.

* * *

Ulquiorra was an observer.

Not a participant, a player in this game of life, but merely an observer who stood on the sidelines—watching, listening, and dissecting the information he retained.

He used to be good at what he did.

Used to be.

Despite his tepid response to his sudden change in circumstance, inside, Ulquiorra was in turmoil. He was a man who valued order and structure, and believed it was crucial for one to know exactly where his place was in society. Unfortunately, this was a society that valued perfection over all else and cast out its Jews, gypsies, and scum. He knew his current place. As of now, he was at the very bottom of the social ladder. Trash.

He raised his arm, bed sheet rustling as he did. Very gently, he pressed his fingers over his bandaged eyes. They no longer hurt like before, but there was a strange ache that pulsated through.

Someone shyly knocked on the door. He was bombarded by that sticky floral scent.

"_How are you doing today, Oberst?"_ Naherin asked.

He decided to go for a "no comment."

She approached his bedside. _"Eh, I-I wanted to apologize to you for my thoughtless behavior last time," _she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Ulquiorra would've given her his usual impassive glance if he only had the eyes to do it. Instead, he decided to voice his mind. _"There is no need for an apology. Involving emotions will only complicate matters."_

"_Yes, I should have acted more professionally. But as your nurse, I must also consider the patient's feelings."_

He turned as if to face her. _"What are these 'feelings' you speak of?" _he said.

Naherin stared at him, at first unsure of how to respond. _"Feelings," _she began carefully, _"are what everyone has. They're what everyone needs."_

"_I disagree."_

The dissent fell heavily. It felt as if the oxygen was being slowly sucked out of the room. She had never experienced such a leaden conversation before.

"_Pardon?"_ she said, keeping the trembling out of her voice.

"_Emotions are unnecessary," _he said. _"They cloud our reasoning and reduce thinking capabilities."_

Naherin face blanched. _"Is that…what you truly believe, Oberst?" _she asked. _"That what our hearts feel is nothing but a-a _burden_?"_

She gave a small gasp when Ulquiorra shot his hand forward and grabbed her by the collar, pulling her closer to him. How he knew her exact location despite his blinded eyes, she would never know.

He leaned forward and whispered, _"What is a heart? You speak of it as if you know it very well. Then tell me, where can I find it? Can I dissect the emotions out of it? If I were to rip open your chest and search through the organs, would I find it then?"_

Though covered with bandages, it felt as if his green eyes were drilling a hole through her.

"…_Or are you lying to me?"_

SLAP!

Naherin stumbled back, released from his grasp. Her lower lip quivered, as angry tears coursed down to her chin. She clasped her offending hand and took a slow, shaky breath.

Ulquiorra didn't move. He didn't lift his hand to touch the slap mark that marred his cheek.

When he heard the sound of running footsteps and the slam of the door, and when he could no longer smell the sweet odor of flowers, he knew he was alone.

* * *

Like Grimmjaw had predicted, the Nazis were far from finished with him. They visited three times a day now (not to give him food).

Some German soldiers came at their own time and free will. After all, these were bored young men with pent-up anger and stress. They were cautious at first. Grimmjaw was infamous for his temper and brute strength. He had already maimed quite a number of torturer-to-be's, despite being chained hand and foot. But gradually, the Nazis began to find amusement in his vicious attitude. They saw him as a challenge, as if he were some wild stallion that needed to be broken. Apparently, there was now a huge bet on who could make the "piece of American scum" scream first. So far, Dietrich was in the lead. Rumors about the branding incident had already spread.

Yet, Grimmjaw would gladly hand the "Creepiest Bastard of the Year" award to the head poncho himself. It wasn't the beatings or the clever new ways to inflict pain that freaked him out. In fact, General Aizen rarely touched him. The asshole preferred to step back and watch with a placid smile, as if he was at an opera and not a torture chamber.

What scared (yes, scared) Grimmjaw was that strange feeling that accompanied Aizen's visits. The more often the general came, the more he became aware of another presence in his cell. It started out as a chill that spread across the prison walls. But now he could even hear a rattling breath, unintelligible whispers, a low groan.

Today it was a duet. Both Dietrich and Aizen were here. Dietrich wanted to play, while Aizen was content with being the audience. In fact, nowadays Aizen brought his own barstool to sit on and watch.

Dietrich fiddled with a crowbar with his unnaturally long fingers. White, long fingers that reminded Grimmjaw of a disgustingly pale spider. Sometimes he felt like a moth in a spider web, waiting to have his innards sucked out.

Dietrich slammed his foot onto Grimmjaw's back to keep him in place. He yanked at the chain to Grimmjaw's collar, twisting his head back painfully. "Is the kitty hungry?" he asked. "Would the kitty like some milk?"

"Kitty would like to claw your face off," Grimmjaw replied.

Dietrich grinned. He raised the crowbar, positioned himself like a baseball player, and swung with all his might. It connected with the side of Grimmjaw's skull with a sickening _crack!_

"_Shit_!" Grimmjaw yelled. Whenever he was caught off-guard and couldn't grind, he opted for swearing. It was better than screaming and exciting those little fuckers.

His world tilted, as everything became a blur. The blood that trickled down his face and onto the stone floor kept getting smaller then bigger, as if they were synchronizing with his rising heartbeat.

In the midst of all this, Dietrich's gleeful face floated into view. "Language, lil' kitty," he said. He kicked Grimmjaw over and laid him flat on his back. Taking the blood-soaked crowbar, he drew a circle on Grimmjaw's stomach. It looked like a crude finger-painting.

"'Cuz if you're hungry, I can make a hole in your belly," Dietrich said sweetly. "'Cuz then you won't be hungry. You'll just have a nice hole right over here. How 'bout I take this crowbar and twist your intestines into a bunch like spaghetti and feed _that_ to you? Sounds tasty, doesn't it?"

"Bite me," Grimmjaw said.

Dietrich put on a face of mock hurt. "I just wanted to know if you were hungry, kitty, cuz we found a lil' Jewish boy sneaking around the kitchen, ya know." A horrible sneer unfolded. "Ungrateful rat, isn't he? After we brought him here cuz of his medical skills."

It took Grimmjaw a minute to take in the meaning behind the words. He spat in the Nazi's face. "You sick son of a bitch," he hissed.

For the first time ever, the smile vanished from Dietrich's face. Eyes in slits, he stared at Grimmjaw thoughtfully, twirling the crowbar in his hands. Grimmjaw gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, bracing himself for another blow. Dietrich raised the crowbar once again with both hands, but everything was interrupted by a scream.

It was the most horrifying thing Grimmjaw had ever heard. It caused his stomach to plummet, as every fiber in his body shook with the realization that for the first fucking time in his life, he was _terrified_.

The scream was pure anguish. It was a concentration of unleashed rage, bitter hatred, and, most of all, grief. He had never heard something that could raise every hair on his body (right down to his pubes) and break his rock-hard heart like that.

"…What…is that?" Grimmjaw mumbled.

He jerked when Aizen stood up from his special seat. Despite this unreal situation, the general was all smiling and calm as if he was on a picnic.

Grimmjaw widened his eyes when he saw Aizen draw something out of thin air. It was a sword. The kind he saw Japs wielding on the battlefield. _Is this some kinda new form of torture? _he wondered.

Aizen expertly held the sword. "So you can hear a hollow's scream?" he asked. "Interesting."

"To think he has that much spirit energy," Dietrich added.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Grimmjaw snarled, trying to sit up.

Aizen pressed the blunt edge of the sword against Grimmjaw's chest to push him back down. "A hollow," he said, "is a restless spirit that could not depart. It's a spirit with a hole right over here." He thumbed at his chest. "War is the perfect breeding ground for them.

"It seems this one was following you around quite a bit," Aizen continued, raising his sword. "A friend, perhaps? A fellow soldier? But I can't have him consume you. No, you're still necessary for my plans."

Without another word, Aizen thrust the sword into thin air. There was a ripple from the impact and Grimmjaw was met with the most curious sight. As another hideous scream ripped through the air, for a split second, he thought he spotted a blurred apparition of some sort of huge creature. A creature with a mask that shattered as it faded away, revealing sad hazel eyes.

"You…" Grimmjaw choked.

A worn cross hit the floor as the hollow vanished.

* * *

After the last visit, Ulquiorra wondered if he would be abandoned and left to rot.

So he was mildly surprised when he heard the doorknob turn. His surprise melded into something else as soon as he realized the body scent of the person who entered the room did not carry flowers.

"_What did you say to Naherin?" _came the disapproving tone.

It was the bespectacled nurse with the no-nonsense attitude. Ulquiorra decidedly turned his head the other way, choosing to ignore the question.

The nurse frowned. _"You must have been real scum. I rarely see Naherin get angry."_

He parted his lips to make an odd noise. It could have been a chuckle. _"Perhaps."_

The nurse raised an eyebrow. _"Are you sorry for what you did?"_

"_No," _was the immediate reply. _"But…I am sorry for hurting her."_

The nurse smirked. She opened the door and said, _"You hear that, Naherin? He apologizes. Kind of."_

Naherin shuffled her way in, eyes downcast. There was a light blush that painted her cheeks.

"_Well then, I'll leave you two alone together." _The nurse quickly snuck out and closed the door behind her.

The lingering awkward silence was broken by Naherin's small but firm voice. _"I…am also not sorry for what I did. But I _am _sorry that I hurt you."_

He dismissed it.

"_No, it was very unprofessional of me," _she insisted, leaning over to change his bandages. When she bent forward to untangle the wrappings behind his head, her huge breasts pressed against his face, smothering him.

"_Woman, I can't breathe."_

She leaped backward, face burning red. _"I'm so sorry, Oberst! Please excuse me!"_

While Ulquiorra caught his breath, Naherin tried to redeem herself. _"Is there anything I can get you?" _she asked.

He paused. His original plan was to let her stew in her guilt, but he wondered if he could play with her a bit. _"Strawberries,"_ he said.

She jumped in surprise. _"Eh? Strawberries?" _she said.

"_I ate strawberries during my childhood," _he lied smoothly. _"Now that I can never see my hometown, I wish to recollect the lost memories by tasting them."_

Perfect. The exact amount of nostalgia to garner pity (but not overdone) and the rare exposure of his supposed "soft" side would be enough to…

"_Where will I find strawberries?" _she murmured.

"_Use the brain you have," _Ulquiorra said, not meaning a word. _"Figure it out."_

She bit her lips, but then raised them to a smile. _"Will I get something in return?"_

He raised his eyebrows. But he was in a generous mood. _"In return, you can drop your formalities. Call me Ulquiorra."_

Naherin looked shocked. _"I possibly couldn't, Oberst Schiffer!"_

Ulquiorra looked bored. _"I said to call me Ulquiorra."_

She blushed again. _"I'm sorry, Oberst Schiffer." _Determination glinted in her eyes. "_But I'll find the strawberries. If it's for Oberst Schiffer, I'd be glad to!"_

_Foolish woman,_ he thought. He wondered if there was an ounce of affection in his thoughts.

Probably not.

* * *

The ambush was abrupt.

As the war dragged on, both sides were getting desperate—desperate enough to launch impulsive attacks. The only reason why they might have attacked this particular vehicle was the sight of an escort accompanying Nurse Naherin. Perhaps they mistook her as an important officer, not a valuable hospital employee.

There wasn't even time to scream. Machine guns peppered the jeep, filling it with bullets. Shouts in Russian rang in the air as clouds of dust flew into the air.

The inside of the jeep was dyed red. Red from the trodden strawberries, red from the splatters of blood. It was a bittersweet scent.

Only a whisper was carried by the wind.

"_...Ulquiorra."_

* * *

After that out-of-the-world experience with Aizen and Dietrich, Grimmjaw decided these Nazis weren't just bastards. They were crazy bastards. He began to construct a list that ranked the craziest of his torturers when, as if on cue, the door opened. Only one man entered the cell.

It was Craziest #1. General Aizen swaggered forward, leaving behind a throng of soldiers right outside the cell, most of whom Grimmjaw recognized from previous "visits."

"Grimmjaw," Aizen said. His voice echoed off the prison walls.

When Grimmjaw didn't reply, Aizen was suddenly at his side. With one harsh movement, he jerked Grimmjaw's chain, almost snapping his spine in half when his head was forced back. Stunned by this unexpected show of violence, Grimmjaw didn't even have a retort ready when Aizen began to speak.

"I'm beginning to lose patience," he said.

_Oh joy, _Grimmjaw thought. But he didn't dare voice his thoughts out loud.

"I'm a patient man, but I'm also a busy man," Aizen said. "So let's speed things up a bit. After all, wouldn't it be better for you if we ended things more quickly?"

"I…" Grimmjaw said slowly, "…have _no_ _fucking _idea what you're talking about." He couldn't stand this anymore. All this wordplay and mindgames were driving him to the edge. He had half a mind to just bite off his tongue and hope to die. The downside was if he didn't kick the bucket, then he'd lose his only weapon.

"I thought I had made it perfectly clear," Aizen said mildly. "I ask for your loyalty."

Speechless, Grimmjaw stared at the SS general. He laughed. His loud laughter bounced off the walls, surrounding the only inhabitants. He abruptly stopped. "Go fuck yourself."

Aizen smiled. "As I expected. But I'm not asking for your loyalty right now. Not in _this life._ No, you're going to die. I will do nothing to stop that. Instead, I ask for your everlasting loyalty _after death_."

"You're mad," Grimmjaw said. "I never thought I'd meet someone crazier than me, but you're one fucked-up son of a bitch."

"So your answer is?"

"Go. Fuck. Yourself."

Aizen sighed. "It seems it will take a while to tame a beast," he said. "I will return to see if your answer has changed."

He stood up. Opening the door, he called the waiting soldiers inside. At the doorway, he talked to the group in a murmur. A grin appeared on the soldiers' faces. They leered as they stepped into the room, one of them licking his lips.

Grimmjaw stared at them, the color draining from his face. He began to struggle madly against his chains. The shackles cut deeply into his wrists.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" he bellowed. "I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU! DON'T YOU _FUCKING_ TOUCH ME!"

"_Remember," _said Aizen. _"This one is feisty." _He closed the door behind him.

For the first time, screams rang through the torture chamber.

* * *

Ulquiorra awoke with a start. He was crying. No, that couldn't be right. He never cried.

When he pressed his fingers against his wet cheeks, blood clung to the tips of his fingers. Blood coursed down his cheeks, leaving twin trails.

Never one to be concerned about his physical appearance, he didn't bother to wipe it off. Instead, he concentrated on the footsteps approaching his room. They weren't the silly skipping that belonged to that woman or anyone he recognized.

It was a new nurse. She opened the door too loudly and faked a cry of surprise. _"Oh my, you're bleeding!"_

"_Who are you?" _he said, a menacing tone barely veiled.

"_I am your new nurse, Oberst," _said the unfamiliar voice. High-pitched. Whiny.

Already, he detested her.

"_Where is the old one?"_

A sympathetic tsk-tsk. _"She died a few days ago!"_ the nurse said overdramatically. _"She was riding in a jeep when it was ambushed. Apparently, she left the hospital to find strawberries. Imagine! Strawberries during the war? She must have been out of her mind!"_

"_Get out."_

Ulquiorra's quiet words sliced through the air. The threat in his voice was no longer hidden.

"_Huh? But, O-oberst, I—"_

"_Don't make me repeat myself,"_ he said. _"Get out."_

The temperature in the room dropped so low, a chill had seeped into every corner. The nurse could barely breathe.

She ran out of the room, bristling with indignant anger but far too terrified to say anything.

She closed the door with a loud slam.

Silence settled in the room.

...once again, Ulquiorra was alone.

* * *

_Reflections..._

I had the hardest time writing this chapter. Even now, I'm very unsatisfied with it :(

For those who are hella confused, let me clear things up a bit. Although this fic is an AU, I'm trying to correspond it with the actual manga as much as possible. You could almost say I attempted to make a "prequel" to the manga that focuses on how Grimmjaw and Ulquiorra became hollows and how Aizen began making his army before the events in Karakura Town and our lovable Ichigo.

So though Aizen and Gin/Dietrich may appear as Nazis here, they are still technically the same shinigamis from Soul Society who came to the living world during WWII. With Aizen's bankai of "ultimate hypnosis," I figured he could skip a few days in Soul Society and get a head's start on gathering his army. And considering how selective and meticulous Aizen is, I played with the idea that he'd personally go and pick his "potential" espadas.

After all, war _would_ be a perfect breeding ground for hollows.


	15. Human

**­­**Yesh, I have absolutely no excuse. Hope not too many have abandoned this D:

Also, take note that the rating has now officially changed into **M**. Beware, it's pretty graphic.

* * *

Note

"normal" - English

_"italicized"_ - German

_italicized - _Thought

* * *

_Before we begin...  
_

Grimmjaw and two other soldiers manage to survive the trench war but find themselves wandering deeper into enemy territory. They seek refuge in a German town, but are quickly discovered by a Nazi squad led by Oberst Ulquiorra Schiffer. What should have been a silent skirmish between the Americans and Nazis blows up into a mass murder of the entire town. Grimmjaw's fellow soldiers Hershey and Reynolds are killed in the process and Grimmjaw is captured by the Nazis, but not before taking Ulquiorra down with him. While Grimmjaw is being brutally tortured by Dietrich and General Aizen, a blind Ulquiorra is left to rot in a hospital room.

**

* * *

Chapter Fourteen**

**Human**

Screams were an everyday package in the prison cells. Each pitch, each volume, from hysterical sobs to shrieks of pain finished with guttural moans, all played a part in this symphony. One particular voice stood out.

Dietrich sauntered over to Aizen, a wicked glint in his slit-like eyes. _"I never thought I'd hear these screams,_" he said, relishing in them. _"What'd you do?"_

"_I sent in a few hungry soldiers to play with him," _Aizen said.

"_You're rather hard on your future subordinates._"

Aizen smiled graciously. _"Beasts __need a hierarchy.__"_

* * *

Grimmjaw awoke from a nightmare.

His body twisted and turned, as he tried to escape from something—anything. When he finally realized he was alone, he stilled. His breathing came out in puncturing pants and his heart rate quelled from an anxious hum to a dull hammer.

A chill crawled through his skin. Goosebumps mingled with cold sweat broke out across his entire surface. The chains rattled against the hard floor as his entire body trembled, as his mind replayed the scene over and over again. Desperate, he tried to convince himself that it wasn't real; just an induced hallucination from the lack of food and sleep. If it weren't for the peculiar soreness, he'd have believed it.

He focused on the ground. Liquid drops traveled down his skin and dotted the floor in different patterns. With a burst of frustration tangled in fury, he slammed his head against the ground. He continued; headbutting as hard as he could, trying to smash the memories out of him. It was only when everything spun in crimson because of the blood creeping into his eyes, he stopped.

When the door opened, he jerked unintentionally, his limbs automatically locked with tension.

Followed by two soldiers, General Aizen entered the cell.

Grimmjaw stared at the intruders with animal-like eyes. A contradictory blend of beastly fury and utmost terror glared through the curtain of blood. Every hair strand stood on its end, as he crouched protectively, unwilling to leave even a crevice exposed.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

There was no reply.

"Why so quiet?" Aizen asked. "Cat got your tongue?" He knelt down and inched closer, as if Grimmjaw were some sort of stray cat ready to bolt at the given opportunity.

Chained, he had no such opportunity. The look in his blue eyes was concentrated hatred. "Get_…away from me_," he hissed.

Aizen's eyes bore no reflection of the beholder. They were almost glassy, the way they skimmed carelessly. "You're filthy," he said.

Grimmjaw flinched at the implications.

"Why don't you," Aizen spoke slowly, "take a bath?"

He waved his hand and the soldiers closed in on the prisoner. They grabbed him roughly, ignoring the way he recoiled from their touch. Sapped of all energy, it was child's play to drag Grimmjaw to the tub and commence dunking his head into the murky water.

He didn't resist as his head was shoved into the water. He was tired. Tired _sick _of fighting back, tired of being a clown for these Nazis, tired of everything. But most of all, he was tired of hoping. It drained him to cling on like that. After all, he saw no end to this hell, no light at the end of the tunnel.

Clearly disappointed by the lack of resistance, the soldiers finished the head-dunking earlier than usual. They threw him to the floor, where he lay like a sodden vegetable.

Aizen turned to the soldiers. "Get him cleaned up," he said, "for round two."

* * *

Blindness is an infinite darkness. Not that Ulquiorra, who preferred the night over day, ever minded darkness. It wasn't the darkness he couldn't stand.

They say blindness opens up a new world—a myriad of novel experiences one can only experience through the remaining heightened four senses. Ulquiorra had another name for this world.

Hell.

Without his sight, his ears became much more sensitive to everything around him. What he could once block out easily now pierced through him like knife through butter. He was forced to listen, to absorb it all—the meaningless chatter, the babbling of fools, the ceaseless noise. Everyday was like living in a cramped room with the inability to tune things out, surrounded by hundreds of talking television sets, relentless with their stimulation.

There was no "off" button.

He sat in his bed like this every day, decaying bit by bit from the inside. After Naherin's death, no one dared enter his room to change his bandages. Since there wasn't anyone to wipe away the blood that trickled from his eyes, it left twin trails to dry on his cheeks.

Not that he desired company, but Ulquiorra yearned for the door to open. How he wanted someone, anyone, whether it be the Christian God or the Devil, to enter, point a gun, and end his empty existence right then and there. There were even times when he was tempted to take Fuchs's pistol from his bedstand and finish the job himself. But under no circumstance did he wish to voluntarily fulfill Fuchs's expectations.

On the seventh day, the door finally did open. The Devil entered.

"_What a charming arrangement,"_ said General Aizen, glancing around the room. His eyes passed over the black Bible in Ulquiorra's lap and Fuchs's gun on the bedstand. He took no notice of the blood streaks on Ulquiorra's face.

Though he was expected to speak in the presence of a superior, Ulquiorra still couldn't search for his voice.

General Aizen didn't seem to care for the silence. With a benign smile, he brought out a stool. Once he took his seat next to the bed, he said, _"I have a proposition to make, Ulquiorra Schiffer."_

* * *

Fuchs despised the basement prison or torture chamber or whatever they called it. Despite never having visited the place, he was well aware of its existence. Its location may be deep underground, but there were times when the screams reached the main floor, implanting in his stomach an unpleasant urge to hurl. When it was his job to seek out Dietrich and discuss the losses at sea, it certainly didn't tickle him pink that he had to seek the man out in the last place he wished to step foot in.

His shiny boots squelched through god-knows-what as he marched down the corridor toward the cell at the very end of the passage, a cell rumored to be reserved only for the most stubborn of POWs.

Fuchs stopped in front of the door and hesitantly knocked on its iron surface. When there was no answer, he called out, _"Generalleutnant, this is Oberstleutnant Fuchs. I—"_

The door suddenly swung open, cutting him off. Fuchs choked. The instant the door opened, an overwhelming stench hit him. It was the corrosive smell of blood and something both familiar and unfamiliar… His eyes squinted as they readjusted to the bleak darkness. Dietrich stood leaning against the doorway. Over his shoulders, Fuchs could make out five other soldiers in the center of the room, surrounding something.

"_How ya doin', Fuchs?" _Dietrich said. _"I hadn't seen ya in a while."_

"_I haven't seen you on the main floor at all," _Fuchs replied. _"Apparently, you've been spending most of your time…here."_

"_Well, that's cuz there's such fine entertainment!"_ he snickered._ "Would ya like to meet the star of the show?" _He stepped aside to indicate at a figure on the floor.

It took a while to recognize who it was, but when he did, Fuchs's mouth fell open.

It was the American soldier. Except, it _wasn't_ him. The man on the floor couldn't be the same swaggering, confident soldier who had challenged Oberst Schiffer the first day they met. The difference was mind-blowing. Fuchs would've mistaken him for a corpse, if the prisoner's bruised abdomen hadn't moved ever so slightly. But it wasn't just the wounds that littered his body and the chains shackled around his neck and limbs; there was the look of a dying animal in those glazed blue eyes—a resignation he never knew existed in the man.

"_What…did you do to him?"_

"_Aizen's handiwork," _Dietrich said and Fuchs felt a newfound terror for the general. Dietrich waved lazily at the soldiers. _"Get back ta what ya were doin'. The Generalleutnant and I have important matters ta discuss."_

Fuchs shook his head to clear his mind of the shock. He wanted to get this over with so he could leave this hellhole as quickly as possible. _"They estimate it'll take the Russians less than a month to reach headquarters. I'm being transferred for safety next week but—" _His breath hitched when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.

He turned around violently. _"What the _hell_ are you doing?!"_

The soldiers were in a circle around the American prisoner. One was positioned behind the limp man, hands clamped on the bruised hips, while another was unzipping at the other end. They froze halfway at Fuchs's voice and looked up at Dietrich expectantly.

"_What does it look like they're doin'?" _Dietrich said softly.

Fuchs stomped over and wrenched the first soldier off the American prisoner. _"Get off him! You-you were going to—"_

"_If ya want a go with him, just wait your turn," _Dietrich sneered.

Instead of turning beet-red like he usually would, Fuchs paled. _"You can't _treat_ a human being like this! You can't just strip someone of their dignity and think it'll be all right! This is an act that only the lowest of scums do, not soldiers—it's _sick_."_

"_Don't act all innocent, Fuchs!" _Dietrich declared. _"You were perfectly aware of everythin' goin' around here! Are ya gonna act all goody-goody _now_? Doncha think it's a lil too late for that?"_

"_There…there are many things I disagree with in regards to the SS," _Fuchs admitted. _"But I've kept my mouth shut because I felt it was all for a higher purpose." _He shook his head, a strange sense of despair in his eyes. _"But now…not this…no matter how much I believe in the Fuhrer, I can't turn my back on this. This is something no human being should undergo, no matter who or what he is. Whether he was a Nazi or an American, I'd do the same." _He glared at the soldiers. _"Step away from him. This is an _order._"_

The soldiers didn't move; they continued to sneak glances at Dietrich.

Dietrich sighed. _"Ah, ya take the fun outta everythin'," _he pouted. He stood up, ready to leave.

At Dietrich's retreat, the soldiers pulled their trousers back up and sullenly filed out of the cell. Dietrich was the last to leave. He paused on his way out. _"You'd be a big, fat pain in the ass even after ya died," _he said.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Fuchs wished he had left with the others. The situation before had been awkward enough. Now he was alone in the cell with the American soldier. _This _was torture.

There was a flicker of recognition in those blue eyes. The American prisoner shifted in his chains, sitting himself up against the wall. He leaned his head back and took a deep, slow breath.

"Are you…" Fuchs swallowed his tongue. Of course he wasn't all right.

The look the American soldier gave him sufficed as an answer. "Don't give me that shit," he spoke in a gravelly voice. "I don't need your fucking pity."

Fuchs watched him sadly. "No," he conceded. "But you need some humanity."

* * *

It was a strange scene in room 4. The general in his pristine white uniform sat serenely on a small stool, humming to himself as he clasped his hands over his lap. The patient of the room sat in his bed, soiled bandages wrapped around a bloodstained face.

"_It seems,"_ General Aizen said, _"that you are unhappy with your current situation."_

Ulquiorra didn't reply for the second time. It wasn't like he was trying to give the general the silent treatment. It was more so that he, Ulquiorra Schiffer, just didn't know how to approach this man. The general had an unusual quality to him, one Ulquiorra still couldn't place.

"_You need to realize that you brought this onto yourself," _said General Aizen.

"…_I see," _said Ulquiorra.

"_You've changed," _Aizen continued. _"When I first saw you, you were far more methodical and finely tuned than this. It's as if you've become more…_human_."_

"_General, I am human," _Ulquiorra replied.

Aizen simply smiled. _"Oh, but you don't have to be."_

Ulquiorra finally figured it out. When the general effortlessly slid on that well-crafted smile, Ulquiorra knew what it was that separated the general from the masses. There was_ no fear _in Aizen Sousuke. Not in his appearance, his voice, the way he carried himself—Ulquiorra couldn't detect even the smallest leak in the general's armor of confidence and self-assurance. This man was like no other Ulquiorra had ever encountered before.

When Ulquiorra had stood among the rows of soldiers who fervently hung onto every word of the Fuhrer, he had spotted moments of uncertainty, moments of weakness in the man standing on the podium. The man had taken on everything for himself, held the burden of humanity's destruction and recreation on his shoulders. There were small intervals when even the Fuhrer quailed under the immense pressure.

This was not so with Aizen. Ulquiorra wondered what it could possibly be that had turned Aizen into who he was. He wished to know.

"_I ask for your loyalty."_

Ulquiorra raised his head, surprised by the question._ "You already have my loyalty, General," _he answered.

"_No. Pledge loyalty to _me_.__ Not to the Fatherland, not to Hitler. Certainly not to _this._" _He tapped the Bible. _"_Me_.__" _

"_I'm aware of what's in store for the Fatherland—"_

Aizen laughed. A small cold laugh that silenced Ulquiorra. _"I was never interested in conquering the living world," _Aizen said languidly. _"The Fatherland is doomed. The Allies are closing in and will soon take over Berlin.__ Many will die. The Fuhrer will die—by his own hand, no doubt. You will die."_

Ulquiorra had already been quite prepared for that.

"_But Death is just the next step."_

"_I…don't understand," _Ulquiorra said slowly.

"_You don't have to. You will when it happens," _Aizen replied. _"Soon."_

But Ulquiorra was still unconvinced, as persuasive as Aizen's eloquence was. _"Why me?" _he asked. _"My eyes…"_

"_Will see everything I wish for you to see," _Aizen finished. _"You will be my eyes for this new war."_

He leaned over the bed, his lips brushing against Ulquiorra's ear. _"Give your loyalty to me," _he whispered. _"__Then __I will give you power__…and your sight__.__"_

He straightened himself. _"Become my soldier, Ulquiorra," _he said. _"Serve me faithfully and I will open your eyes to a world you could never have imagined. A new world shaped by my own hands.__"_

Aizen was about to leave when he spotted Fuchs's gun on the bedstand. Ulquiorra with his blind eyes couldn't catch the amused smile Aizen wore, but he heard the man take apart the gun with his dexterous fingers, leaving the parts on the table.

"_It interests me how the most competent of soldiers are capable of reassembling a gun under two minutes," _Aizen said, articulating each word, _"…blindfolded."_

* * *

For the first time in weeks, the door to Grimmjaw's cell opened not to give access to a troupe of horny soldiers, but to a slight, skinny boy.

At first, Grimmjaw didn't recognize the boy. Neither did the boy recognize him.

The medical pack slipped off his shoulder and fell to the ground in a soft thump. "You—" he choked, unable to form coherent words. He slowly sank to the ground next to his medical pack.

"Save it," Grimmjaw whispered. His throat was still hoarse.

Tears spurted in the corners of the boy's eyes. "W-what—what did they _do_ to you?!"

"They had their fun," Grimmjaw drawled.

The boy began to weep. His tears were for his family, for the many lives lost, for himself, and for the American soldier. While he wept, Grimmjaw scowled and turned to stare at the wall.

When the boy had cried his fill, he sniffed in his snot and wiped the rest away with the back of his hand and asked in a scratchy voice to show where it hurt.

"Where does it hurt?" he repeated.

Grimmjaw had heard him the first time. "…everywhere," he said quietly.

The boy swallowed. "C-can I look at them?"

"No."

Grimmjaw was adamant in his decision. The boy knew well enough not to try to convince him otherwise.

"Just hand over the food," Grimmjaw said wearily.

The boy jumped. The paperbag he managed to smuggle in under his shirt had completely slipped out of his mind. "How'd you…?" he said, pulling it out. He opened the bag and lifted a sandwich to Grimmjaw's mouth. Grimmjaw awkwardly leaned forward, trying to manage with his hands tied behind his back.

"It's the only thing here that doesn't smell like blood or piss." Grimmjaw chomped on the sandwich. He choked. "The fuck are you feeding me?!"

Bewildered, the boy separated the sandwich and examined its content. "It looks like…ham and onions with…jam and custard." He lifted his head with panic in his eyes. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't—"

"Put it closer," Grimmjaw interrupted, ripping off another large chunk. "I'd eat _you _if I could." He chomped away at the rest. "Where'd you find this shit anyway?" he said between rushed, euphoric bites.

The boy crumpled the paper bag. He placed the wad on his lap and lowered his head, suddenly nervous.

"What?" Grimmjaw said, licking away the last bits of crumbs on his mouth.

The boy glued his eyes to his lap. "Um, actually, I, uh, found someone who asked to meet you."

Grimmjaw stopped trying to lick off a spot of jam on his face and stared with alert eyes. He gritted his teeth. "You _brought _someone?" he snarled.

"Not someone to hurt you!" the boy insisted, leaping up. "At least I don't think so—he-he said he had to talk! He's not going to hurt you—just talk! And-and he threatened to call security if I refused and—"

"Where is he?" Internally, Grimmjaw cursed at the boy's stupidity. The only ones who wanted to "talk" with him always had something else in store.

The boy walked over and placed his hand on the door handle. "He's right outside."

* * *

When Aizen left, Ulquiorra was left to ponder.

He wasn't the type to fall for such sweet talk so easily. Yet, there was a part of him that found Aizen's words eerily compelling. He was in the midst of deciphering a hidden meaning from their exchange when the door to his room suddenly burst open and someone stumbled inside, panting. That someone quickly closed the door behind him and made a small noise of surprise when he spotted Ulquiorra in his bed.

"_Who are you?" _Ulquiorra said calmly, but his tone hardly veiled the threatening note.

There was no reply from the intruder and Ulquiorra began to wonder if it was a hitman sent by the army to get rid of worthless baggage. But a hitman would never be so sloppy, unless this was a part of his act.

When Ulquiorra's ears caught the shuffling of feet, he lunged and seized the intruder by the throat, his free hand ready to pierce along the windpipe. There was a garbled cry. "W-wait!"

Judging from the high-pitched quavering of the voice, Ulquiorra knew this couldn't be a trained killer. He didn't even sound German. He slightly loosened his hold. "State your name, position, and reason for being here."

The intruder gladly replied, "M-my name is Kowalski. I'm a nurse and—"

Ulquiorra dug his fingers. "Don't lie," he said coldly. "You're not even German and you claim to be a nurse?"

"But I am!" the intruder cried. "I-I may not be German, but I _do_ work here. I'm a Polish Jew. I was picked up by General Aizen, who wanted someone to treat a couple of POWs."

"You haven't stated your reason for being here."

"I was trying to get some food," Kowalski said miserably. "Not for myself!" he added hastily. "But I was caught by this silver-haired man when I tried to steal from the headquarters kitchen. He said I'd have better luck stealing from the hospital, because there's less security and I can find ready-made food trays."

Ulquiorra lowered his hand, deeming it to be safe to let this bumbling idiot go. He wondered why Dietrich didn't kill the boy the moment he found him.

"You still haven't given your reason for being _here_." Normally, he'd have killed someone for being so useless.

"I-I was looking for a place to hide," Kowalski stammered.

Ulquiorra released the boy and handed over a stale sandwich in a paperbag. It was the last meal Nurse Naherin had made for him.

"Th-thank you! It's for an American POW," Kowalski said, gratefully stuffing the bag under his shirt. "He's being treated in the worst ways. But I've never seen anyone so brave! I just hope General Aizen doesn't do anything horr—"

Ulquiorra had heard everything he needed to hear. There was only one American soldier Aizen would ever turn his attention to. "Take me to him," he cut in, ending the boy's babbling.

Kowalski froze, wondering if he had heard right. "Excuse me?"

"Don't make me repeat myself. I want you to take me to his cell."

"W-why? Are you going to hurt him? I can't help you if—"

Ulquiorra slammed Kowalski against the wall, rattling the frail frame. "You're going to say nothing more. You will take me to this soldier or I'll call for security and have you executed by sunrise."

Voice stuck in his throat, all Kowalski could manage was to nod frantically, forgetting Ulquiorra couldn't see.

"Lead the way."

* * *

With apprehension leaping in his chest, Kowalski edged the door open to let the scary hospital patient in. He thought he'd have trouble leading a blind man down a dangerous corridor, but the man seemed to know his way around so well, Kowalski wondered if this patient could have once been an important officer.

"Erm, sir?" Kowalski was pushed aside as the man swiftly entered the room without any support.

Time suspended in the air like a line of stretched thread ready to snap. For what seemed like forever, the two men drowned in silence. A pair of wide blue eyes stared at the patient. A pair of covered blind eyes regarded the prisoner.

It was the beginning of the end.

* * *

_Reflections..._

A belated update but hopefully a semi-decent one. I was gonna edit it but I thought, "what the heck, they've waited enough." So if there's any mistakes, kindly point it out :)

And yes, Shrapnel is coming to an end. It had to someday and I'd rather finish it here then drag it on for like seventy bajillion chapters. The next chapter will be the last. I'm halfway through it, so if you send me lots of love, I'll be more inclined to update asap :D

Anyone still reading this?


	16. Beginning

_Dedicated to my crazy friend, the instigator of this_

_Dedicated to all the readers—if my friend started _Shrapnel_, you guys continued it.

* * *

_

_Before we begin…_

Well, this is it. Never thought it'd last a year. I'd like to thank you all for the wonderful support. For those who've enjoyed reading _Shrapnel _as much as I've had writing it, I hope to hear one last shout :)

Now let's begin.

**

* * *

Chapter Fifteen**

**Beginning**

"I sure fucked you up, huh?"

Though he couldn't actually see, as Grimmjaw had kindly pointed out, Ulquiorra could sense the sneer on the bastard's smug face.

"And they sure have fucked you," Ulquiorra replied.

He may be blind, but he had retained and sharpened his remaining senses. The heavy stench of this room was unmistakable.

Grimmjaw flushed, muttering, "Fucking freak…"

"Um, e-excuse me," Kowalski dared to speak up. He had his medicine bag on his back and dearly looked ready to go. Initially, he'd been worried the Nazi patient had come to murder the American soldier. But as he watched them interact, he grew more and more convinced that it wasn't going to happen. In spite of the show of open hostility, he also sensed a strange sliver of comradeship.

"You can go," Ulquiorra said. "I'll leave when I'm done."

"When…will you be done?"

Ulquiorra took his time to answer. "Once I've confirmed something."

The boy left the cell and closed the door with a final clang.

Their usual flow of conversation interrupted by Kowalski, the two wallowed in the gloom of the cell.

"Did the grenade do that to you?" Grimmjaw asked.

Ulquiorra found no need to answer a question that had only one answer. "Did General Aizen do this to you?" _That_ had a touch of malice.

Grimmjaw turned pale at the name, an automatic reflex. His breathing grew short and he lowered his gaze to steady himself.

"…I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

"He's-he's—"

"He's like no other we've ever seen," Ulquiorra said.

"He's sick, _fucked_ up…" Grimmjaw searched for the words in vain.

A slam outside caused him to jump. When the floating voices of soldiers passing by trickled in, Grimmjaw gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. _Oh fucking god, he's fucked me up, fucked me up bad._

He swallowed his heart down and opened his eyes and stared at Ulquiorra, who waited impassively. Mustering up the last drops of courage left in him, Grimmjaw spoke.

"…Kill me."

The tension was so thin, it threatened to snap.

"Excuse me?"

Grimmjaw gritted his teeth. Ulquiorra had heard perfectly crystal-clear but here he was, demanding Grimmjaw to repeat those humiliating words.

"I said," Grimmjaw grinded out. "I said…_kill me_."

Ulquiorra stood still.

Grimmjaw began to see red. "Did that grenade fuck up your ears too? I just _said_—"

"No."

Grimmjaw's eyes expressed his incredulity. "What?" he whispered.

"I said no," Ulquiorra said calmly.

"What—why? Why—"

"Why should I free you?"

"I-I said kill me," Grimmjaw tried to steady his voice, "not free, kill me—KILL ME, YOU SONUVA—"

"Same demands," Ulquiorra said coldly.

Grimmjaw made a sound of disbelief.

"You're asking me to free you to death. You're too ashamed to commit suicide because that would imply weakness, but you can't stand to live any longer because they will continue to toy with you." Even without his eyes, Ulquiorra looked as superior as ever in that pissing-off way of his. "I refuse to take part in anything."

"FUCK YOU!" Grimmjaw exploded.

"Anger will get you nowhere, Grimmjaw."

"SHUT THE _FUCK_ UP!"

"I didn't think you'd be so easily broken."

With a roar, Grimmjaw lunged. Ulquiorra evaded easily, able to discern movement by the echoes. Besides, Grimmjaw was still chained. There was a SNAP, as Grimmjaw's chains stretched to their fullest extent. But he persisted, lunging forward as if his life depended on it, as if ripping Ulquiorra's throat out was the last thing he had to do. He ignored the relentless handcuffs flaying his raw wrists. He ignored the crack in his shoulder, which was sure to be dislocated.

When the chains wouldn't budge even then, Grimmjaw did the one thing he never thought he'd ever do.

He begged.

"Kill me. Kill—_please_ kill me!" Emotions overwhelmed him, halting his words. He was on his knees, panting close to the ground.

Ulquiorra didn't breathe.

"L-look, I'll let you do whatever you want, so just, just end this. Kill me, kill me, kill me," he chanted in a low voice. "_Please_."

The last plea rang through the cell, sinking in their skin.

Ulquiorra took in a deep breath and let it out bit by bit, reveling in the control he had. This confirmed it.

"No."

Something shattered.

The minutes passed, since nothing could halt time. Eventually, Grimmjaw snapped out of his daze. He slowly sank back into his haunches and released his breath. His shoulders began to tremble, as mirthless laughter drifted from him.

Ulquiorra turned around, ready to leave. He got what he came for.

"_Ich hasse dich."_

Ulquiorra paused, his hand on the doorknob. He turned to stare at Grimmjaw, who had murmured in the enemy's tongue.

Grimmjaw's eyes glowed. "I'm gonna kill you," he hissed. "Someday, I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna make you grovel at my feet, I'm gonna rip you apart and destroy you."

He turned the doorknob. "Goodbye, Grimmjaw."

A howl swept after him.

* * *

Grimmjaw's scream never left Ulquiorra even after he returned to his hospital room. He had just left the one man whom he could almost consider a comrade of sorts to the worst fate imaginable. Mercilessly depriving him of the sweet reprieve of death.

General Aizen's poisonous words slipped past his mind.

"_You've become more…human."_

Ulquiorra suddenly seized the Bible next to the disassembled gun on his bedstand. Ferociously, he began to tear out the pages. The delicate pages floated around him like a cloud of feathers.

After all those years of training, digesting the bullshit the Fatherland had fed him, what had it amounted to? He'd only learned one lesson. How pathetic the human race was. Humans were piteous, self-destructive. Any sense of justice and morals they carried were nothing but a pile of self-righteous crap, something that could easily crumble, based on the situation. Those SS soldiers that were venting their frustration on Grimmjaw were a perfect case. The exemplary youths, the Fatherland's future were nothing but a group of witless boys attempting to reassert the control they clearly lacked. On the other hand, the ones leading the Fatherland were old men playing war, fat from lounging and drinking as they sat comfortably away from the battlefields.

But Ulquiorra had already known this all along. Perhaps it was Grimmjaw's state that had pushed him over the edge. Frankly, he had been quite royally pissed off.

That Grimmjaw Jaegerjaques, the one man who had managed to lay a hand on Ulquiorra, go as far as blind him, had been broken by a handful of snot-nosed SS soldiers_—_it was at this point, Ulquiorra opened his eyes and realized how deprecating the human species was.

The desires, the emotions, the lust were what got in the way. Grimmjaw had allowed himself to be weakened by such things. He was now trash. Human.

"_But you don't have to be."_

He crushed the last page in his white fist and lowered the empty book.

This confirmed it.

Ulquiorra Schiffer had finally severed his last connections to humanity.

* * *

Unfortunately, Fuchs couldn't be there every time to stop the horny fuckers. Not that Grimmjaw expected another show of heroic bravado. He had to focus on the show at hand.

He gritted his teeth as sharp pain shot up from the base of his spine. What was worse was the jeering that surrounded him, ringing in his head as his eyes slid out of focus. He tried not to lose consciousness because that rarely stopped them and he wanted to hold onto whatever wisp of sanity he had left. Despite his efforts, a viscous darkness seeped from the corner of his eye…

Something inside him trembled, struggling to break free.

"_When that time comes…don't get eaten."_

Who was it that once said that shit to him?

He tried to distract himself from the pain by counting the links of the chains rattling next to him. He blinked. Closed his eyes and opened them again. He counted a total of five separate chains—two from his wrists, one handcuffed to an ankle, and another linked to the collar on his throat. But where had the fifth come from?

He slowly lowered his eyes and saw a disconnected chain attached to his chest. Trepidation overwhelmed him. He felt bile rising. When he blinked once more, the chain was gone.

_Have I lost my mind?_

But the feeling returned. His vision jarred as he slumped to the ground, gasping.

A soldier slapped him on the ass. He tended to hog during the turns. _"Hey, pay attention. What're you lookin' at?"_

_I can't breathe…it's so hard to breathe. _His entire body began to shake, tremble on its own.

"_What's the matter with him?"_

A _crack _echoed across the cell, when Grimmjaw suddenly wrenched his wrists against the steel handcuffs.

"_Holy fuck! He broke his wrists!"_

_It hurts. It hurts. My chest hurts. _A spasm went through his body and then he stilled.

"_Check if he's knocked out," _the soldier said. He hadn't paused once during the entire ordeal.

But Grimmjaw stirred on his own. He mumbled something. A seductive smile started, as he glanced at the soldier.

Interested, the soldier leaned in. _"What was that?"_

Grimmjaw's words were too low to catch.

The soldier leaned in closer. Grimmjaw's lips now barely brushed his ear. _"What—"_

The curdling scream hurt like a branding iron.

The soldiers immediately withdrew, aghast. The American prisoner had gone ahead and sunk his teeth into the soldier's throat. Like a crocodile, he held on, steeling his grip and refusing to let go even when the Nazis began to throw panicked punches and kicks at him.

"_Get him off me! Oh God, get him _off _me!!" _the soldier yelled between spurts of blood.

Grimmjaw closed his eyes and his lips curled into a smirk, his fangs piercing deeper into the skin. Those words were wonderfully familiar. _I could get the hang of the taste of blood, _he mused. _It tastes fucking sweet._

When they finally did manage to pull him off, the man was already turning cold. Sticky blood clung to the edges of their feet as they stared at the corpse of their fellow soldier, shell-shocked.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"

Grimmjaw leaned back and spat out a patch of skin and muscle. His mouth was dripping crimson and blood was splattered across his front. He had the widest, craziest, happiest shit-eating grin on his face, revealing two full rows of blood-tinted, pointed teeth.

Whether it was the trick of the sparse light, but for a brief second, his eyes appeared black with white irises.

* * *

"_Like ya expected, Ulquiorra went ta have a lil chat with Grimmjaw."_

"_How are they coming along?" _General Aizen asked, walking side-by-side with Dietrich.

"_The kitty ripped the throat outta a soldier durin' passionate lovemakin'," _Dietrich said giddily. _"The other soldiers threatened ta crush his ballsies and feed 'em to the dogs but they said he just laughed and told 'em ta bring it on. Now everyone's too scared ta touch him. It's only those with a death wish who do. So far two made it back alive—one lost an ear but the other had to kiss goodbye ta something very_ _important."_

He stopped in front of the door to Grimmjaw's cell. _"Ulquiorra's sulkin' as usual but he should be ready now." _Dietrich whistled. "_But to think that the preparations for hollowfication could start before death."_

"_So, how are they coming along?" _General Aizen repeated.

Dietrich grinned. _"Perfectly." _He opened the door for General Aizen. Only Aizen entered the cell.

Grimmjaw gave a proper greeting this time.

"'Lo Aizen, you cocksuckin' slimeball."

Aizen's smile started. "Congratulations, Grimmjaw. You've begun."

"What the fuck did you do to me?"

"This is your doing," Aizen corrected. "You're the one who decides whether to spurn or accept the darkness. So I take it that you've thought things over."

Grimmjaw chuckled. "What was your 'proposition' again? Something like being your bitch?"

"Something like that."

"I never got to hear the rest. What do I get out of this?"

"What do you want?"

"To rip your heart out."

Aizen shook his head. "How about I give you something else instead?"

"I'd rather rip your heart out."

"Oh? And how can you when you are weak like this?"

Grimmjaw glared.

"Tell me what you really want, Grimmjaw."

Grimmjaw's eyes turned dark. "Power," he breathed. "I want power. I want to fight. I want to kill. If death's the only way I can get stronger, then kill me a hundred times, a thousand times—I don't care. As long as no one gives me that look ever again."

It was that look, more than anything else, that drove him mad. Whether it was his alcoholic old man, the teachers at school, the hookers he picked up on the street, they all had the same look; the look of contempt. As if they were better than him. But it was different here, in the battlefield. This was his domain. No one dared give him looks of scorn, not when he was about to put a hole in their head. He'd feasted on that terror, the fear in their eyes. That is, until he was captured.

"I'm gonna claw their eyes out. The eyes that piss the hell outta me. Especially _his_." He trembled, with excitement, with yearning. "Give me power and I'll show you who can truly be the strongest."

Aizen smiled. "I'm quite eager to see what sort of marvelous destruction you will bring."

"If you give me power, I'll stand being your fucking lapdog. But don't you ever forget—the moment you shed your guard, the second you show your back, I will destroy _you_ first," Grimmjaw vowed. "I'll drag you down from that high throne of yours and make you suffer the same shit you made me go through."

Aizen laughed. "Well, then. Are you ready?" He opened the door.

Dietrich waltzed in, with a Japanese sword in his hand. He kicked Grimmjaw into sitting stance and positioned his sword, pointing at the abdomen. "Time to skewer the kitty," he said. "Any last words?"

Grimmjaw stared him straight in the face, donning one last feral grin—a grin that would last for years to come, when the underground prison would remain unexcavated and long forgotten, when the skin would have rotted clean off his skull, leaving him a grinning skeleton slumped against the wall.

He said, "_Fuck_ you."

* * *

When the Soviet invasion of Berlin began, the one to bring Ulquiorra the news of Adolf Hitler's suicide was Fuchs. He stopped by Ulquiorra's room a few hours before he intended to flee Germany that very night.

"_You should also leave this place," _Fuchs said quietly. He sat on the stool General Aizen had left the last time he visited.

Ulquiorra faced the other way.

Fuchs breathed out heavily. He stood up and gave a salute. _"Goodbye, Oberst Schiffer."_

When he reached the door, Ulquiorra spoke. _"What became of…General Aizen?" _he asked.

Fuchs turned around, wearing a frown. _"Who?"_

Ulquiorra settled into the bed. _"No, it's nothing."_

It took less than twenty-four hours for the hospital to be run over by Soviet soldiers. Anyone who appeared as an SS soldier was shot on sight. Ulquiorra's room was located in an obscure corner at the end of the hallway, but it was only a matter of time before they arrived.

When he heard the pounding of footsteps and rattling of the doorknob, he recalled what Aizen had last said. _"__T__he most competent of soldiers__…"_

He reached for the bedstand next to him.

"…_are capable of reassembling a gun__…"_

He gathered the pieces of the gun.

"…_under two minutes__…"_

His fingers tenderly slid over the parts and began fixing them in place.

"…_b__lindfolded."_

When the door was kicked open and the Soviet soldiers poured in, they entered just in time to see Ulquiorra raise the pistol and shoot himself in the base of the throat.

* * *

_To be continued in _BLEACH


	17. Parody II

_Happy birthday, you lil' psycho

* * *

__Before we begin…_

I said Chapter 15 would be the last chapter.

I lied.

Frankly, I tried to make an epilogue of sorts. I really did. But it got very boring and predictable, so I scrapped it and decided to amuse myself in different ways. I was tempted not to upload this, because it certainly does ruin the solemn mood of the last chapter, so just in case, here's a

**Warning: **Crack. Seriously.

I had fun.

**

* * *

Epilogue—not. Parody II**

1. Pets of the Espada

Due to the utter boredom and stale life at Hueco Mundo, a few members of the Espada kept pets and other modes of entertainment in their private chambers. A few.

Stark was too lazy to even feed himself.

Gramps thought only fraccion were fit to be his pets.

The only animals Halibel dealt with were target practice for her ceros.

Nnoitora kept an ant farm. On rainy days, he picked the ants out one by one and smooshed them under his spindly thumb.

No one wanted to enter Syazel's lab.

The pumpkin dude grew—duh—pumpkins.

The guy with his heads stuck in a capsule kept pickled animals he subbed for his heads.

Yammy once sat on a pig he had brought to eat.

Someone (was it Syazel?) gave Grimmjaw a cactus as a joke. When it pricked him, Grimmjaw cero-ed it into oblivion. He replaced it with a Wii.

Ulquiorra kept a tank of fish. Oddly enough, it fitted him.

* * *

2. Names

Ulquiorra's room was the most boring room Grimmjaw had ever entered. Only the most practical of items were permitted to remain. In other words, Grimmjaw had no such permission.

On Ulquiorra's desk was a small tank. Inside the tank was a pair of fish swimming in circles. The fish were a sickly white with stripes of green. For some reason, they reminded Grimmjaw of someone.

"Fish?!" Grimmjaw said. "You keep _fish_?"

"Fish are an undisruptive and economical source of companionship and amusement," Ulquiorra replied, not looking up from the book he was reading. "Unlike someone I know."

"Yeah right," Grimmjaw scoffed. "I bet Aizen unloaded it off you."

Ulquiorra prickled. A week ago, Gin had gone frolicking off to the human world without permission. He had won the fish at a summer festival and then dumped them on Aizen. Aizen had promptly passed them onto Ulquiorra.

Grimmjaw tapped at the tank to elicit some sort of reaction from the fish. The fish ignored him, continuing to swim in circles. Their infuriatingly detached attitude also reminded him of someone.

"I bet you didn't even bother give them names," Grimmjaw sneered.

Ulquiorra paused. It was obvious he hadn't thought of anything as frivolous as that. However, he'd rather slit his wrists than admit Grimmjaw was right.

"I've given them names."

"Yeah? What?"

"This one," Ulquiorra said, pointing at the larger of the two, "is Boy. That one is Girl."

"What kind of fucked-up names are that?!" Grimmjaw said. "Move it—" He shoved Ulquiorra aside and stood feet shoulder-width-apart in front of the tank "—I'll give them _proper _names."

He jabbed a finger at the larger fish. "This one is gonna be Big and that one's gonna be Small."

* * *

3. The Fates of Boy and Girl (aka Big and Small)

One day, Grimmjaw barged into Ulquiorra's room, uninvited as usual. He stomped forward but froze at an unpleasant squelch.

Boy had flopped out of the tank and lay on the floor.

"Oy," Grimmjaw said.

Ulquiorra looked up from his book with irritated eyes.

"Why'd your fish commit suicide?"

Ulquiorra stared. He stared at the dead fish. He looked back at Grimmjaw. "I was teaching it the command 'come here.'"

* * *

Grimmjaw peered at the tank. Girl was stuck between the pebbles at the bottom, bloated with an eyeball bulging out.

"Dude, your fish is dead."

Ulquiorra looked at the tank. He returned to his book. "No, it's sleeping."

* * *

4. Cup of Tea

Ulquiorra was in his room, reading his book with a cup of tea next to him.

Grimmjaw kicked the door open. He spotted the full cup of murky tea and snorted. "What are you, a girl? Sipping at your tea like some uptight bitch? Come on, Ulquiorra! Be a man! Drink it like a man!" He grabbed the cup and drained it in one gulp.

There was a knock on the door. Ulquiorra lowered his book. The voice of a fraccion floated in. "Ulquiorra-sama, I came to pick up the tea where you found a cockroach inside."

That was the first time anyone had ever seen Ulquiorra Schiffer smile.

* * *

5. Stuck in the Sugar Cube

Ulquiorra was stuck in the caga de negacion. Time flowed differently here.

He punched through the space.

[Day 1]

Punch punch punch punch punch punch punch

[Day 2]

Punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch

[Day 149]

Punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch

[Finally, day 402]

Punch punch punch punch punch—

"I will leave Las Noches to you for a while," Aizen said in the brink of the battle of Karakura Town. "…Ulquiorra."

CRASH!

Ulquiorra nonchalantly stepped out of the sugar cube as if nothing had happened. "Yes sir."

* * *

_Reflections..._

Now this is really farewell. Thank you all for enjoying _Shrapnel_!


End file.
